Don't Rush the Magic

What I wish I'd known as a single mom when my son was a baby.

Dear Younger Self (A Newly Barely Surviving Solo Mom),

Remember that first holiday? The one with the two-week-old potato baby, a grieving parent, and—because your timing has always been impeccable—a fresh COVID booster right before Joshua Tree? When you felt so spectacularly awful you could barely lift your own child, your milk supply dried up entirely, and despite being surrounded by family, you felt like you were failing at life in IMAX with surround sound?

Yeah. Plot twist: that was actually... normal.

The fourth trimester is a special kind of hell that no one adequately warns you about. (Why is it called a “trimester” when it feels like a decade?) Year two wasn’t much better—a newly minted one-year-old, zero community to speak of, and doing the holidays solo for the second year running. Good times.

But then year three happened. Hanukkah in the Palisades with friends. Christmas dinner at another friend’s place. Our favorite single-mom-and-son duo coming over for New Year’s. And suddenly... it got better. Like, a lot better, not just “wine-at-3pm better.” Though let’s be honest, there was a lot of wine.

Here’s the thing they don’t tell you: Every year adds a little more community, a little more family, and exponentially more fun. The early years are brutal—the kids are basically tiny, ungrateful dictators who don’t understand why you’re working so hard, and you’re left wondering if you’re doing everything wrong. Literally everything. You’re not. They just aren’t ready for it yet.

What I wish I’d known then (and I’m just starting to feel it now): the magic will come.

My son is four now, Jewish, and absolutely obsessed with all of it—the twinkle lights, Santa (we’re complicated), The Polar Express, the whole shebang. We hit up the botanical gardens’ light show, where he promptly scorched his mouth on hot chocolate because, of course, he did. He recovered with remarkable speed, and then danced through those magical light tunnels with friends. It was perfect because it was chaotic and real.

A Word About Santa Photos and Other Pinterest Lies

I was scrolling the Single Moms by Choice Facebook group (as one does), reading a thread about taking kids to see Mall Santa. The consensus? Tears. Trauma. Photos that look like hostage situations. One mom described it as “paying $40 to emotionally scar my child.”

My hard-won advice: Keep it stupid simple. Stage your photo op at home. Slap a Santa hat on that kid. Plop them in front of a menorah. Done. Perfection is a scam sold by people with ring lights and too much time.

Take a short walk to see some lights. Drive around the neighborhood. Keep expectations lower than your energy levels (which is saying something). As your kid grows, so will the magic. And please, for the love of all that is holy, don’t let Instagram make you chase something bigger than you can actually give.

The Real Magic

For me, the joy is in our community—the ramshackle, beautiful, chosen-family kind. Going to temple (or church, or wherever you find your people) for the town celebration. Enjoying Chinese food and a movie with the same enthusiasm as lukewarm hot chocolate under twinkly lights.

The magic isn’t in the production value. It’s just... there. And there’s no wrong way to find it for your family.

I have a small two-person family—a mom-and-son operation. But with our extended family, our friends, our larger village? Our joy, warmth, and love are infinite. Turns out, that’s more than enough.

It’s actually everything.

Love,
You in Four Years (Slightly Less Anxious, Significantly More Caffeinated)