Christmas mom cosplay

On magic-making, motherhood, and the mental load during the holidays.

For new moms, expecting moms, people who don’t want to be moms, those still deciding, and those still trying. Because mothering is a verb: everyone benefits from it, everyone participates in it, and everybody (and their mother) is invited to join the conversation.

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Growing up Jewish and amongst mostly other Jewish people, I never really “got” Christmas. I had no Santa fever, no tree envy, and no interest in the lore—I was immune to reindeer, elves, advent calendars, the grinch, trimming, ornaments, stockings, and caroling. The only reverence I had was for Mariah because, well, I have a beating heart and working ear drums.

To be transparent, I regarded Christmas and believed others to regard it as a Hallmark holiday—devoid of substance, a box to check, and something entirely for children at best, an expression of wanton capitalism at worst. (I’d proudly and insufferably tell people that Passover, replete with plagues and no bread, was my favorite holiday—which is like the equivalent of saying Ringo is your favorite Beatle; Almond Mounds, your favorite candy; and the DMV, your favorite place to relax.)

Most of my Christmases were happily spent on the beaches of South Florida with others of my ilk, visiting elderly grandparents. So filled up with latke and tiny little Hannukah presents—special shoutout to my geranium-pink Kate Spade pencil case—I didn’t care to understand the gentile festivities, until I met, fell in love with, and married one.

Our first year of dating, I went into our first Christmas at my future in-law’s home—hyperbole is maybe a Jewish trait, but I’m asking you to think Father of the Bride-era Nancy Meyers—neutral about what was to come. I came out still a Jew, but an absolute Christmas lover. A Yuletide-oholic. A Noel freak.

How’d that happen? Simply put, my soon-to-be mother-in-law created magic. Walking in, my nose met the holiday first. On every surface, there were lit candles, the sweet woody smell only off-set by the feast being cooked in the kitchen. The tree, lush and fragrant, brushed the top of their ceiling. The lights were arranged expertly, Martha Stewart-style with just the right amount of twinkle, decorated with ornaments they had collected over close to four decades. One was a picture frame of my husband, at age six, adorned with macaroni. (I didn’t know it then but he looked exactly like our future son.)

Flannel blankets were laid out; drinks of all stripes were serve yourself. (My future in-laws knew I was sober and stocked the house with flavored seltzer and Diet Coke; did I mention they are angels?)

The activity at hand: Nothing. Just chilling and talking and watching movies (Harry Potter, The Family Stone, Little Women) and more talking and playing with their two rescue dogs, Bodie and Mickey, and my now-niece and nephew. Eating, too of course. Cured meats, multiple cheeses, shrimp cocktail, chestnut stuffing, a roast, and most memorably, molten chocolate cakes in individual cast iron pans.

I went to sleep insanely full and sure I was in a dream, understanding what I had once misunderstood. In the morning, I had no idea that presents were to be opened one by one. And when they emerged, each was more thoughtfully-picked out, more expertly wrapped, than the next. Each recipient of one of MIL’s gifts felt seen at that moment by how individually tailored the gifts were to that person.

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Every marriage is a negotiation; being in an interfaith marriage just puts more issues on the table. This is what we landed on: We’d raise our kids with the Jewish faith but still celebrate Christmas. Hardly a sacrifice for me as I was now smitten with the holiday, already loading tinsel-related items into my cart come November. And when I became a mother, I was hell-bent on recreating some of my MIL’s magic for my kids and husband.

In the past five years, I’ve learned that there’s a marked difference between loving the magic and being responsible for making it. Which is to say Christmas is about delight and child-like wonder; generosity and family. But also that it’s also undoubtedly a ton of work (much of it credited to Santa, not the moms), the source of much stress, and a fountain of high expectations—on ourselves, on our partners and extended family, and even on our kids. Accepting that two opposing things can exist at the same time is crucial in any season of motherhood, and the holidays are no exception.

There’s the present buying and sciatica-inducing present-wrapping. There’s the deviation from routines, the spending, and the social plans. There’s the logistical gymnastics, holiday tips, and school events. (Our school has something called Holiday Tradition Boards we have to make for our kids, which are a perennial thorn in the side of—I mean absolute pleasure for my beloved mom crew. One of us, so overwhelmed by work, the season, and just life, famously finished hers January 5th. )

There’s the invisible labor, rich food, and oh my god are there any tights in my drawer without holes. The packing of things and assembling of gear for any potential travel. There’s the ever-present likelihood your kids will get sick. There’s the icky, but it must be said, consumption of other people’s holidays on our social feeds, which can make us feel small, weird, or even sad. And lastly, there’s the bittersweet feeling that all this—December, the holidays, their childhoods writ large, yes I said it!—will come to an end soon.

So of course, the December maternal mental load—so often spoken about on my For You Page and in mom blogs—is real. (The best piece of content on this subject is the 2020 SNL skit with Kristen Wiig about moms doing the most and getting a robe.) Just because things have become cliche doesn’t make them any less true. In fact, I’d argue that the proliferation of this sentiment on the Internet only speaks to its universality. According to a 2024 TODAY.com survey, moms bear the brunt of the holiday prep 97% of the time.

Regardless, I’d argue the holidays noise must be separated from the holiday cheer. Yes, the work is hard but if you value completism, it is quite satisfying. One thing I love about cosplaying Santa and taking on the role of magic maker is the satisfaction of completing a motherhood-related task from start to finish. (So much of the work of parenting doesn’t garner tangible results in the way the holidays do.)

No matter the time of year, the cornerstone of generosity is paying attention to someone. Christmas is about that; it is whimsical and decadent; back-breaking and even heartbreaking, especially if you’re grieving or already generally going through it. So in that spirit of generosity, pay attention to yourself too. There’s magic there, too.

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