Happy Holidays From WOMAN.ca

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I’m new to Christmas, you see. A Yiddish Yuletide rookie with an open mind and a guilty conscience. A Jew, dating a non-Jew. Not exactly my Zaida’s favourite grandchild. Just kidding.

Kind of.

Once you get in good with the family, his family, you're extended the holiday invite. Oh, happy day! I pretended to be nonplussed when I got it, but in reality I was giddy with anticipation. I counted down the days to that oh-so Holy Night with meticulous accuracy. Essentially, I became my own advent calendar. Minus the waxy chocolates.

Suffice it to say, I was very into this whole Christmas thing, and I had no bones about it.

To give you some background, I grew up in a world where the man dressed in red at the mall (you know, the one giving out candy canes and taking gift orders, spreading merriment to all like herpes at a bath-house, putting smiles on the faces of everyone around him, and asking for absolutely nothing in return) was referred to only as “the entertainer” - one hired by the mall to pacify the children while their parents shopped for gravy boats and pyjama pants.

After all, my parents have always been practical.

This year, however, I was invited to partake in the Christmas celebrations with his family. Herpes-free, of course.

There is something so magical about the Christmas holidays. Something that every Jewish boy and girl admires as young kinderlach. Homes are filled with tiny lights, happy music, and beautifully wrapped gifts waiting in all of their Scotch-taped glory beneath that three-part plastic pine tree.

Sigh.

For Channukah, we were all allowed to ask for either one big gift, or eight small ones. Youthful naivete lead me to select the latter. I’d end up with a box of Crayons, a set of butterfly clips, Jurassic Park on VHS, a Lip Smackers, “Torah Snakes and Ladders”, slippers, FeMo clay, a new lunch-kit, and a Take That CD (which was actually pretty sweet, I’ll admit).

Eventually, I learned to pick one big gift. Live and learn, as they say.

My siblings and I would light candles for eight nights, eat greasy potato pancakes smothered in apple sauce, and and then fight over the Sega controllers in the basement until it was time for bed. Nothing really screams “festive” here. But that was our family. That was our holiday. And, I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

This weekend, however, I was treated to turkey, and stuffing, and gravy (REAL gravy), and was generously gifted a pile of lovely new things from a few lovely people. Hugs were abundant, so was the liquor, and I relished every last second of it. Every. Last. Second.

At first I felt bad. What kind of T’filla-singing, kosher-keeping (well....?), Hebrew-speaking Jew has Christmas!?

When my mother called me to ask how the holiday went, I played it down. Meekly, I listed off the gifts I received and the food that I ate before asking her how the Beef and Broccoli was at the Hi Ball in Winnipeg. (They really do go for Chinese on the 25th...)

But my mother, being a woman of great detail*, continued to pry further and further. What did I wear? What did we eat? What did he think of the gift that I got him? Being a sucker for the sweat-out**, the floodgates opened, and all of the garland-wrapped particulars poured from my lips with unstoppable speed.

I loved my gifts! I loved the food!! The music, and the family, and the wine?!?! It was incredible!!! “OMG” I’M TOTALLY HEAD-OVER-HEELS FOR CHRISTMAS!

Coming back to earth, I waited with bated breath, listening for a click. For a dial tone. For the sound of a dramatic and highly audible heart-attack, followed by the crash of a lightening bolt from Heaven, striking my dear mother down on account of failed parenting. But, to my surprise, my mother seemed pleased, calm, if not curious, intrigued, perhaps a bit... jealous?

We spoke of the festivities, and she lapped it up. She laughed when I told her about the woman at The King Edward Hotel who wore elbow gloves and a Cinderella gown while everyone else wore jeans. She cooed when I spoke of the cute little kids from Oakville ripping open their long awaited presents from “The Entertainer” and hugging their parents furiously upon uncovering their loot. She was moved when I spoke of his parents’ heart-breaking generosity, when I told her about how warmly they welcomed me, the gifts that they gave me, and about how they made me feel like one of their very own.

We talked until my cellphone battery grew weak. With the red light flashing, we said goodbye - but not before she said this:

“I’m so happy that you had a good time!”

It was then that the proverbial light bulb went on. And boy, it glows bright.

Cue the synthetic violin and soft focus lens.

The holidays, no matter which one you celebrate, are simply about having fun, spreading love, and showing the world that you care. In this rush-rush environment, our jobs, our bills, our commitments and communities, our deadlines, our phone lines and the inboxes that never seem to stay empty, we often forget about what’s truly important.

Whether you’re spinning for a gimmel, decking the halls, or hanging ‘kente’ and rocking kaftans, December is a month for all of us. Giving generously, bundling up, and being with the people we love, and those that they love in turn, is what this time is truly all about. Plain and simple.

So, from all of us on the team, Merry Christmas, Happy Chanukah and the best of the season to one and all. Good wishes for the new year, and big love all around.

Yours Truly,

WOMAN.ca

* slang for unrelenting, borderline aggressive persistence, of course. see: cop-drama interrogation
** aka: way terrified

Carli Mia
		About the author:
		Carli Mia, also known as Carli Rothman, also known as Carli Stephens, also known as Carli Mia Stephens Rothman, is a prairie-girl to the core, and a graduate of the Ryerson School of Journalism. She currently lives in downtown Toronto, and acts as the Director of Content for WOMAN.ca!
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