Believe

This year, Mimi and Opa treated the whole family to a ride on the Polar Express.

On December 20, we shuttled our pajama clad children down to Union Station where we checked in, received golden tickets and then boarded a train bound for the North Pole.



Leading up to this highly anticipated event, we all became versed in what this experience might entail. We read the book over and over at bedtime, we watched the movie, and we sang along with Josh Groban. 360 degrees of indoctrination.

I hadn't read the book since I was a little girl, and I remembered the Caldecott winning pictures more than the story itself. So I read it to Mary with fresh eyes one early December evening. Snuggled together, I found myself starting to cry at the end. The last line, 'the bell still rings for all those who truly believe' killed me. Crushed my heart. How dearly I still wanted that bell to ring for me.

A couple nights later, I read the exquisite author's note on the back cover. It talked about childhood, the glorious progression of growing up, and all the gains that come with it. But then comes that one moment carrying an abrupt reveal of information that is shielded from the most innocent. At this point he concludes there is no gain, only loss. A loss of the profound and wonderful fairy tale that graces every young mind. He said that on the Polar Express though, it doesn't have to be that way. He ends by begging the reader to climb aboard.

The kids and I were more than ready.

We climbed aboard and let the cast of characters transport us as they sang songs, danced down the aisle, acted out significant parts of the movie, and in general kept us focused on the interior rather than the industrial Chicago landscape that slowly moved past us on the outside.
   
We all left with hot chocolate mustaches, specially punched golden tickets, little silver bells from Santa's sleigh, many memories, and the mantra, 'believe.'
 
On the 21st though, I started to panic. Between work, the baby, her Baptism, activities, events, illnesses, and a general lack of sleep, I was dreadfully behind on getting Christmas ready for the family. I found myself caught between wanting to believe and just putting on the red pants again. I ended up succumbing and with it finding my inner frazzle. Schlepping, wrapping, baking, cooking, running, caroling, stressing, and then stressing some more.

But as Christmas Eve came, I realized that there were certain things that took a leap of faith. And by truly believing ... believing in family, friends, the spirit of St. Nicholas, and most importantly the majestic reason for the universal celebration, things just kind of magically happened the way they were supposed to.

I believed that three batches of cookies would be enough for one year.

I believed that the kids would behave at the Penisula and have enough energy at the end of our five star brunch with our five star friend, C., to take a spin around the Sky Rink.

I believed that the giant bruise I got after falling on the ice wouldn't prevent me from kneeling to say my prayers at Church.

I believed that everyone would very quickly get dressed in their Christmas best and that we would be on time for Mass.


I believed that Mary wouldn't ruin the Christmas pageant.
   
I believed that after a late night at Mimi's, I could stay up till midnight wrapping presents and making the house look as magical as possible.

  

I believed that everything would come together and the party would be even better than last year.
        

I believed that an exceptional Manhattan would magically make its way into my hand. Thank you Opa Jan.

I believed that the meat would turn out perfectly, the horseradish creme delightful, the potatoes little salty balls of deliciousness, and the fennel salad reviewed with highest praise.

I believed that the kids would be so well behaved that we all could actually sit down and enjoy the delicious dinner from start to finish. And then why not, have dessert and Port seated as well.

I believed the dishes would do themselves. Nice try.

I believed that across the world, families were having the kind of joyous day that entered my home. One that went smoothly, lovingly, blessedly. And from all the social sharing, I could see that I was spot on.

It was a Christmas that begged us all to believe. And that's just what we did.

Merry,

Merry,

Merry Christmas.
   
Lo.

Pump and Fly

I will preface the following story with this: the return to work is one thing, the return to work travel is quite another. While I love my job and the role I play at the company, it's never easy. Most days are high paced, high energy, and stressful ... then you add travel. 

***

On Monday afternoon, I kiss my babies good bye and set off on my first corporate trip since last spring. 

30,000 feet in the air, I eat a Clif bar and some pretzels for dinner, then start worrying that the plane will crash and I will never see my family again. They'll be telling my story on the Today Show and weeping for the three kids and loving husband left behind. 

I return to reality as the plane comes to a screeching halt on the hilltop airport of Charleston, West Virginia. I can tell that I need to pump as quickly as possible.  

I pick up my compact rental car, perfect for the hilly, snowy conditions, and head down the mountain to my hotel. 

I wait behind a pushy over sized consultant with status asking to pull rank and get her much deserved upgrade. Carrie, a chubby, wide eyed receptionist with platinum blond hair and too much mascara politely tells her to call corporate because there are no upgrades available. If only Mary were there to explain, 'you get what you get, and you don't get upset.' 

I get a regular ol room and start unpacking, assembling and pumping. Finished. And oh crap ... where to put the milk? 

Hi Carrie. It's me again. I need a refrigerator 

... Oh you don't have any. Okay ... 

... Well, what do you suggest I do with my baby's milk? 

Five minutes later, I'm talking to Carrie in person. Carrie is now wearing glittery reindeer antlers and flirting with a custodian. The custodian asks if I want the milk in the fridge or freezer. I opt for the freezer and he tells me: ice cream freezer - we'll tell the morning crew. 

Great. 

In the morning, I attempt to cover my tracks, or rather the hair that has shed all over my room and bathroom. One of those lovely four month postpartum symptoms. 

I check out at the front desk. 

Hi, my name is Lo, checking out, also my breast milk is in your ice cream freezer. 

I grab the milk and compactly drive forty miles to meet the rest of my team in Huntington, West Virginia.

I drive past modest Christmas displays, billboards promoting Jesus as Lord, "Cheap Good Stuff" for sale, trailer parks, a nuclear power plant, bridges, icy rivers, hills, forests, snow, and small towns where fast food and Tudor's Biscuit World are the best options around. 

In Huntington, I learn the rules of our restaurant blitz, and then jump into a co-workers Tahoe, because thankfully he'll be driving from here on out. Several hours and restaurants in, I realize I'm not going to find a bathroom stall with an outlet, and I don't have batteries. So I ask to pump in the aforementioned Tahoe, which has an outlet in the back. My male co-workers wait inside and eat french fries till I'm done. 

It's a short trip. I'm back at the airport that evening, going through a security line with signage that recognizes Office Minks for finding and preventing a loaded hand gun from boarding a recent flight. "It's West Virginia after all," they tell me.  

In the gift shop which sells little animals made out of authentic West Virginia coal, I hear a customer tell the shop keeper, 'God Bless You.' I'm comforted and reminded why I love this part of my job. 

There's not much glamour in the fast food belts of America, but there are really good people; people that work hard, appreciate the little things, and pray for a little more.  

On one of my last restaurant visits of the day, I start talking to the pregnant girl at the front counter. She's due in January. She's very excited and getting impatient. As I leave I tell her to take care of that baby. She beams and assures me that she will. 

I pray for that baby as I tell her I have to go home to take care of mine.  

Lo. 

Don't Give Up

On Friday, I took Margaret to her four month doctor appointment. A feverish Mary tagged along. Margaret left with a 15.5 pound entry in her baby book; Mary left with a prescription for Zithromax, adding to a nice little line up of meds on my kitchen window sill, ready and waiting for morning battles, chased and soothed by a couple Tic Tacs.

Later in the day, I decided to climb up to our attic, gather strands of lights, and string them around the bushes out front because we were expecting company all weekend. I had thirty minutes before my next conference call. Ready, set, go. I plugged in one. Out. I plugged in another. Also out. I plugged in a third. The rogue LED lights I bought a couple years ago. Pitch. Finally I got a live wire, threw it around the line up of Boxwoods and called it a day.

A couple hours later, Peter walked in the door and smelled something burning. Ugh. The beans and greens were getting a nice coating of char. I wanted to throw everything away and then throw in the towel. Too late to order a pizza? Yes. I just spent way too much on scallops. 

The next morning, I woke up with an eye that was glued shut from some kind of weird snotty eye booger. I pried it open and took some allergy medicine. Time to give up yet? Nope. Bobby wants 'milky.' Mary wants a 'showy.' Can't I get a coffee first?

I got the kids dressed for my annual corporate Christmas party. When we arrived, they ran all the way from the parking lot to Santa Land. Bobby's over exertion led to a coughing fit, which made him puke in the middle of the line. Embarrassed (and disgusted), I turned to my co-workers behind and in front of me, apologized and cleaned up the mess. Give up now? No way. Five minutes later, Bobby was on Santa's lap, telling him he wanted a hot rod for Christmas. Mom of the year even let him jump in the Minion bouncy house after that, which was followed by more coughing, and me reaching in to yank him out.

Twenty rides on the train and several popped balloons later, everyone was happy as can be.   
That afternoon, as I was rapidly rolling up beef birds and peeling potatoes, I asked myself why I didn't just cater. Or call the aforementioned pizza.

I tried yet again to get everyone to smile for our Christmas card, but Margaret refused.

That evening, as Margaret fussed for her dinner, just as I was plating everyone else's dinner, I told myself to stay calm while my inner berserk said just go there!'
The next morning, as I vigorously stirred the custard, hoping it would thicken in the nick of time, I questioned why I hadn't just picked something up from a bakery. Miraculously the egg and milk mixture set, the layers came together, and I had myself a burnt almond torte.

With no time to spare, I slapped on some lip gloss, threw up my hair, and got everyone ready for Margaret's baptism. Peter said we were going to be late. I said not a chance. We walked out the door with three mismatched kids; one with a wet head, one with a bed head, and one with a bonnet on her head. But we were on time.

During the service, as Bobby made a loud plea for 'milky' and Mary did arabesques down the aisle, I realized that Margaret had undone the button on my wrap dress and that it was slowly coming apart. I was close, so close, to accepting a final straw. But something held it all together.



***

Margaret, my sweet little baby. There are days, when I just want to give up. When I realize I have a dozen balls in the air, (typically) your brother throws me one more, and I just want to drop them all and be done with it. But something, someone, helps me keep juggling and with it keeps the cycle of the day, the week, and the year moving. To all those people who help, thank you. 


      



Margaret, your Baptism is a beautiful reflection of the support system you can rely on in your life. It includes:

Your parents.

Your Godparents.

Your grandparents, uncles, aunts and cousins. Your friends, extended family and community at large.

Most importantly though, God.

Talk to him, listen to him, be with him. And he will be there for you, every day of your life.

***

This week, as I step on and curse another stray burnt almond that fell to the ground during my haphazard coating of the cake, I'll remember the words I wrote above, and the reason I keep pushing myself to 'do it all' in service of my family. Because I know, with God by side, I'll be able to keep the balls in the air and the almonds on the cake. 
    Lo.