The Grown Up Magic of Christmas

The Polar Express is one of my all-time favorite stories because I think it best captures the magic of Christmas. My aunt Barbara Jean gave me the book when I was very young and even wrote a little message for me on the first page, which when I was in elementary school didn't make much sense to me, but was supposed to when I grew older - just like the message of The Polar Express.

A quick recap if you don't know the story: a little boy takes a trip via the Polar Express to the North Pole and Santa Claus lets him pick out the first gift of Christmas. He chooses a silver bell from Santa's sleigh. But on the train ride home, he finds a hole in his pocket and the bell is gone. Under the Christmas tree the following morning, the bell reappears - wrapped up under the tree from "Mr. C." The boy and his sister can hear the beautiful ring of the bell, but their parents cannot. It must be broken, they say. The bell, after all, only rings for those who truly believe.

That part gets me every time. Including the other morning as my co-teacher read it to our Kindergarten class. As we read, I couldn't help but let myself revert back to my Kindergarten self (which isn't that hard for me to do) and remember what it felt like on Christmas as a kid. Magic was that feeling on Christmas Eve night, as we rush home after celebrating with the whole family at my grandparents house - will we make it home before Santa arrives?! Dad reading us Twas The Night Before Christmas in funny voices. Opening presents with my sisters Christmas morning, always blown away by the beautiful array of wrapped gifts Santa magically placed out while we were sleeping. Getting the house ready Christmas Day for the guests to arrive and the smell of Mom's cooking throughout the house. My brother was born at just the right time - my sisters and I knew the truth about Santa, but got to keep up the act for my brother. Santa visited my house until I was about 17.

As we grow up, Christmas becomes different. I'm no longer excited about Santa or presents. Instead, I'm excited about going home. Seeing my sisters and brother again. Catching up with my relatives. Feeling like a kid again for 4 days while I sleep in the bed with the quilt my Gramma made me.

I might not have the same type of excitement and anticipation that I did when I was four years old, but the magic of Christmas is still very much there, in new grown-up ways each new Christmas.

This year, there were 9 stockings on our fireplace, our family growing with the addition of my sister's new husband and our dog, Rocky (and of course there's a stocking for our old cat who no one ever really runs into, but she supposedly still lives at our house). And Christmas day started on Friday the 23rd when we all arrived in Agawam again and got to share a nice dinner together before the chaos of the next day. Christmas Eve was at our house this year, with my sisters and I helping my mom with the food. (Well, mostly my sister Lindsey helping with the food, and me providing moral support.) On actual Christmas Day we crammed all seven of us into the car. We all sang along to the carols on the radio and then sang our hearts out to Adele as she oddly popped onto the radio mix.

In that moment, I felt that 5 year old magic again. Because magic when you're a grown up isn't finding Santa's presents under the Christmas tree - it's finding those moments when love and happiness are so present that you can't help but sing at the top of your lungs because you feel how lucky you are.

So with this Christmas season, I leave you with my aunt's hand-written note:

As you grow older, may the magic bells always ring for you.

Going Insane

Remind me when I'm having kids of my own not to have 20 at once...

My Kindergarten class is a handful, to say the least. I'm coming home with marker stains on my hands and shirt, cupcake frosting in my hair, a headache, a hoarse voice, and a quenching thirst for red wine.

All day long I hear, "Ms. Jodie! Look!," "Ms. Jodie! Help!," "Waaaa! Ms. Jodie!"

"Peter pushed me!" "Kyra kicked me!" "Jayvon hit me in the eye!" And Peter, Kyra, and Jayvon all say, "Jayrel hit me first!"

"Stop hitting each other," I say. "Keep your hands to yourself," I say. "Don't touch each other," I say.

But a minute later, they're at it again. So either 1.) They don't listen to me, or 2.) They hear me and choose to hit anyway. So maybe I should just stop saying "Stop" and let them tear each other apart? Hm...something seems wrong with that solution.

Maybe my true test this year is to see if I can remain sane while insanely repeating the same things all day long? They say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. Well then I'm officially insane: I keep telling these kids to stop hitting, expecting them to listen to me and stop - even though they never have, and it seems they never will.

I don't know what's driving me more insane: their constant bickering or my own voice saying "Stop!"

Regardless, in the ingenue's effort to remain ever-positive, I must focus on the joys these 5 year olds bring to my day in order to retain some bit of sanity. Today I had them pick a name out of a hat of another student in the class. They then had to make a card for that person with nice pictures and nice words on it. Then I made a big deal of presenting each child with his or her homemade card. Even the meanest kid in class made a card! And putting my acting skills to use, I made the biggest deal of these cards. "Oh my gosh Shakira!!! Maxwell made you a card!!! Isn't that so nice of him?!" (as if it was his own unique idea, not my explicit directions...)

And for five brief minutes, no one hit and no one complained and no one was mean and Ms. Jodie didn't have to say "Stop!" For five brief minutes they were nice to each other. And that gives me hope that I'm not insane - just persistent.

The Trifecta

A girl only needs three things: a boyfriend, a perfect job, and a cute apartment.

I'd like to take full credit for this idea, but I stole it from one of my beloved chick-lit novels (from which the genre of my existence is based upon): Single girl trying to establish her career and love-life while trying to find time to breathe amongst the excitement and challenges of the big city. The typical heroine, a 20-something single gal is a little quirky, a little insecure, and sometimes loses her balance while juggling a few shopping bags while wearing really cute heels. But when she achieves all three basic needs, the stars align, the clouds part, and she enters womanhood. This is called The Trifecta. (And I can take full credit on the name.)

But for most of the girls out there, struggling in rise to the top of our entry-level jobs, sifting through the eligible and not-so-eligible bachelors of New York City, and living in shoe box apartments the size of the closets from our suburban childhoods...the stars very seldom align. In fact, studies show that most New York girls balance on a 2 out of 3 ratio. Which, if you were dealing with a Devil Wears Prada boss or a Sex & the City line-up of men, probably isn't all that bad. Mediocrity, in this scenario, is pretty common place. But in a quest for beating the odds and achieving her Trifecta, this New York City Girl started getting closer to not 2, but all 3 of her essential ingredients to the good life.



Things started turning around for her when she kissed goodbye to her quiet Astoria apartment and sought the greener pastures of Manhattan. She found a 2-bedroom converted into 5, complete with 5 other roommates, including the chocolate-eating mouse that likes to hide in dresser drawers and ovens, with an open room that fit her things but couldn't fit a window. Doesn't look so hot on paper, but it was Manhattan, baby!, and that was what mattered.

Apartment: Check!





Then she met a guy who not only helped her moved into this new shoe box, but offered to! And took her out and cooked her nice dinners, and came to see her in plays, and made her laugh. And listened to her when she complained about the mouse, and laughed at her when she imitated the kids she taught, and made her heart beat faster than the express train she was now taking every day.

Boyfriend: Check!





Then she started getting more teaching artist jobs, and didn't have to hostess at the fancy french restaurant anymore. Then those jobs lead to a full-time job. And finally she was getting benefits and paid to do what she loved. Like a real normal person!

Job: Check!


She had done it! The Trifecta was in place! Her world was shifting and birds were singing and people were dancing as she walked down Broadway and life was one giant music video.

And then, on July 19, 2011, between the hours of 3:30 and 4:30pm... it happened. "We're cutting the theatre program," and "I think we're going to lose the apartment! Something's wrong with the lease."

It was too good to be true... She knew it. The odds were too low of actually achieving the true, eternal bliss of being a woman.

She met up with the boyfriend, who asked her what happened. And instead of crying, or screaming, or crumbling to the ground and disinegrating into thin air as she would have done four years ago... she laughed. Because somehow she knew, in that moment, that the world wasn't going to end, that she had what it took to get through what was just a bump in her road. If there was one thing she had learned in New York was that if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere...

Besides, she still had one element of the Trifecta. And that one was a pretty good one. And really, somewhere hidden in the meaning and value of what "boyfriend" stood for, she realized all this time that she had been aiming for the wrong elements in the Trifecta. Silly girl! All that mattered now was surrounding yourself with the people you love, believing in and loving yourself, and staying on the path to fill your life with joy by doing what you love.

A girl really only needs three thing: Love, Love, and Love.