Dear Baby-less and Busy in Bethlehem,
We get it. Spending the holidays with your family can be hard. This can be especially true if you weren't able to find the last Tickle Me Elmo for your niece, your brother-in-law is trying to get you into a pyramid scheme selling fundamentalist children's books, or your dad happens to be the one true god who sent you to this mortal plain to die for all humanity. (Yes, all humanity. Yes, even Gary from accounting.)
Look—family, it's hard for us all.
There's a reason why every Passover before we have the meal, we Jews drink four glasses of wine and send the kids to chase after a stale cracker. (And I don't mean Ron Paul!) And then, of course, holidays with the family become even more awkward once your mom starts asking questions about your future. Not the part about you dying for all humanity—no, Jesus, no—she brags about that to her book club. It totally shuts up Yuval. Jesus, we're talking grandbabies.
You should've known this day was coming. Every Chanukah for the past seven years she kept telling you she doesn't want you to buy her anything, with “BUY” and “THING” in air quotes, which is especially impressive seeing as the gesture won't gain mass usage 'til the 1980s. But then again, she got knocked up by God as a teenager and makes the best rugelach in all of Nazarene—what can't that woman do? I bet she could appear on wonder bread. And Jesus, she's right you know. You can't buy grandkids. At least, not without trading thirty two sheep and letting the kid go after the seventh year.
Give your mom credit. She resisted kvetching this long. She's not saying you're not a good son—you are! You're a great son, helpful around the house, turn her water into Manischewitz, useful for helping with the Sunday New York Times crosswords. You're a good son, but maybe you could become a father before you're a holy ghost. She gave birth to you in a barn, Jesus! She was thirteen when three old guys and a camel watched her cervix swell to the size of a grapefruit. You're in your thirties. That's practically geriatric. You're good-looking, well-liked, abs of steel… It's not like you don't have options. And you know who else has noticed? Sarah, the tailor's daughter. She's good with her hands, if you catch my drift. You should send her a papyrus.
Jesus, you're not getting any younger. If you're going to be king of the Jews, why not create a prince of them? Imagine a little mushegena, your nose and everything, eating Mary's rugelach and crawling across the Red Sea. I'm honestly amazed Mary hasn't stated it plainly earlier. Most Jewish boys, by the time they finish their Bar Mitzvah ceremony, their moms have signed up them up for Jdate. It's what Jewish mothers do, they carry on the bloodlines.
And talk about bloodlines! If you actually went to Harvard, which you totally could've if you weren't doing this wandering hippy thing, you'd win all the arguments about who has the most important dad. Their dad's a fossil fuel tycoon? Yours invented and killed the dinosaurs. Their dad spent his teenage years golfing and snorting coke? Your dad spent his playing with giant lizard people, saying “I'm gonna make this murder iguana have three horns, just in case someone steals his kelp.”
Consider yourself lucky you've gotten to go this long without making grandkids. Look, we get it. You came down here to be a savior for all mankind. How ambitious. But would it kill you to just do this nice little thing for your mother? We all have our cross to bear.
Sincerely Yours,
Dear Abraham