DADWAGON

It started with an innocent enough question, from me to another parent at Dalia’s pre-school: what are you doing for Christmas? “First of all,” she said, “we’re Jewish, so we’re not doing anything for Christmas.”

Ah, right. Oops. Me too.

In the fine tradition of Walter Benjamin and, I suppose, the 12 Apostles, I am a Christmas Jew. That is, I consider myself Jewish (a view not shared by the Lubavitchers, alas), but my family has only ever celebrated Christmas: big fir tree, popcorn garlands, egg nog, and so forth.

Of course, Jews are actually pretty good at Christmas, when they try. Irving Berlin wrote White Christmas. (There’s a deeper list of the Jews behind your favorite Christmas songs here). There’s a reason why New York is both really Christmas-y and really Jew-y.

But the confusion for our kids may be doubled. They are equal parts Jewish, Catholic, Protestant and Buddhist. And while religion doesn’t do much for me, I do like traditions enough to be tempted to try to draw a little from each. But just the idea makes me think of some pained middle school multicultural events from my own childhood. Blech.

So far, I’ve bought some Chanukah Gelt and a German Advent calendar. That’s mainly because I know that if Dalia has a religion, it is chocolate. I hope she won’t notice too early in life that Gelt is usually made from cheap, dusty chocolate. The Germans have the good stuff.

Apparently, her Japanese family doesn’t have to feel left out. Thanks to a quick Google search, I found a Chocolate Buddha for sale, with this exhortation: “RUB his belly! FILL yours!”

That’s my kind of G-d.