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 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.
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