Christmas Cliches

I love Christmas. I love all of it. And I don’t feel put upon that I try to accomplish so much at this time of year. I don't want to miss anything. I’m glad to do it all, inspired to do it. But doing it all takes a lot of energy – mental energy, like production week – and sometimes I need a breather to put the energy back. I’ll be a better Mrs. Claus/Supermom tomorrow because of it.

The only thing I don’t love about Christmas is the pressure of knowing I only have one shot at it. I only get one chance to do Christmas of Fifth and Fourth grade, just like I had only one senior year in high school Christmas and one Last Christmas Before Kids Christmas. I don’t want to squander my chance at creating something meaningful and full of light because I’m lazy or inattentive, or on the other end, too busy and focused. And not because I feel like I have to. I want to. I want to know that when this special time of year came, I was ready for it, made room for it, welcomed it and allowed myself to be inspired. I think maybe that’s the heart of it all. The love I feel at Christmastime inspires me, right down to the bottom of my soul. The love I express through the gifts I give and the conversations I have and the surge of love just from singing with John Denver and the Muppets in my car. This love helps me remember to fill the freaking elf doors every night. It makes me take the time to write the note or make the gift that will show my appreciation for the many wonders and miracles in my life, my family, my exquisite friends. And it has staying power.

Every year, we have this Christmas party. Elise and I started it during the first year we lived together, and it has grown to be a yearly reunion of our college friends. The event that we just don’t miss. We had to reschedule it two different years, and made it something else like Faux Valentine’s, but it wasn’t the same. It’s the Christmas that matters. People take that valuable last Saturday before Christmas, when there are lots of other worthwhile things to be doing, and they come to our house in the cold – bring their babies or pay a babysitter or borrow the car. These fine, fine people who are contributing to the world and being all sexy and brilliant come to my house, because it’s Christmastime, and we all belong together at Christmas. I feel so humbled by that.

And I love Christmas for the shared recognition that there really is a Santa Claus, and he is part of all of us, and that a baby was born that brought hope and inspiration to so many and made people live better in his name. That Faithful Friends Who are Dear to Us are, indeed, the dearest of all, the ones you live for, cherish, admire. These are the friends who help you be a better person, because you know they love you, and you aspire to be the best of the person they think you are.

I don’t even know if that makes sense. I only know that I honor Christmas in my heart and try to keep it all the year. I live in the Past, the Present and the Future, and I live open-hearted to the lessons the Universe is teaching. And every Christmas, under the spell of twinkle lights and eggnog and Hallmark movies, I reaffirm that pledge and start anew.




This is a song that I love by Nancy LaMott, called “All Those Christmas Cliches.” It’s on the mix CD I made to remember this Christmas by, along with two songs from Glee and “True Blue Miracle” from the Sesame Street Muppets…and a bunch of other stuff. I will totally make you a copy if you want one…it’s what Christmas sounds like in Kelly’s Head.

Anyhoo…here are the lyrics…

I’ve spent Christmas in Peoria, Christmas in Schenectedy, Christmas in Las Vegas and L.A.

And I always thought it couldn’t matter less, But lately, come December, I confess

I want the tree full of toys and tinsel, I want the wreath on the red front door

I want the elves in the yard and each sentimental card dripping glitter on the floor

I want a roof full of plywood reindeer, I want a road full of horse-drawn sleighs

All Those Christmas Cliches

I want the turkey with all the trimmings, the turkey mom hardly ever made

I want the gulp and tear at the moment that I hear Johnny Mathis being played

I want a lake full of perfect skaters, I want that fruit cake with sugar glaze

All Those Christmas Cliches

Not to mention the snow, not to mention the choir, not to mention the candles in the window, and chestnuts roasting on the fire

Inside a house filled with noise and laughter along a street bathed in twinkling light

I want the bells and the drums, mistletoe and sugar plums, and kids to tuck in tight

And as for that guy in the bright red outfit, instead of flying off he stays

All Those Christmas Cliches

I want those overblown, corny, heartwarming, Hallmark Christmas cliches.

The Santa Struggle

My little one, my emotional, tempestuous daughter, came home in a rage yesterday. "It was a great day until I got on the bus to come come and Matthew and Emily both kept saying there was no Santa Claus and I kept telling them that I was going to write a letter and tell Santa that they said that, and then they'd be sorry!" Oh, she was in a fit. Which is sort of cute and charming, in a way, that level of belief, but also alarming in the holy-shit-what-have-I-done kind of way. While I am deeply proud of the sense of magic that we've perpetuated in our daughters for their entire childhood, I know we're hitting the end game in that regard, and I honestly am not sure how to handle it. So what have I done in that regard? I just keep repeating, "I believe in Santa. As long as you believe, he comes." All of which is true. But last week when she made me pinky-swear that I don't put the presents under the tree, I did it, with the justification that, actually, the Santa presents are left NEXT to the tree. So, it's not exactly lying. Right? I don't know. I just don't know. But I do know that the fit she pitched yesterday evening due to her frustrated feelings came out as the nasty, sarcastic, mean-spirited spitting remarks that I lie in fear of when I picture her teenage life. Managing her feelings is a life-skill that we are trying so hard to teach her. Not seeing so much success there yet.

I don't know if I'm doing her more harm by keeping Santa alive than if I just sat down and told her the truth of it all. I have listened to what other people have done with this issue, but nothing has felt just right to me. Maybe it's my own weakeness and inability to look into her disappointed little blue eyes and say the words that will break her heart. On the other hand, am I just making things worse for her as she has to fight the playground battles and gets laughed at in the process? I told her that there are lots and lots of people who don't believe in Santa, and that she should maybe just keep her opinions to herself if she doesn't want to keep getting her feelings hurt. But for all of her sometimes incomprehensible fit-pitching behavior, she has, at her core, a very strong sense of justice. That's where it all comes from, I think. She has a firm belief that she knows what is right and wrong, what is fair and unfair, and the idea of NOT speaking up about that is foreign to her nature. While it's exhausting to have a child that so vehemently sticks up for what she believes (especially when Patrick and I are often in the not-fair category, in her opinion), it's still a powerful quality to have. My job, I know, is to help her find judgement in choosing her battles, and find a balance between speaking out and listening hard to people that she can trust to guide her.

Sigh. It's really just that....parenting is hard. Even the good stuff is still hard, and takes so much energy and tact and discomfort. I am trying so hard to do the right things, and so many nights I tuck them in and just want to put my head down and cry about it all, about the possibility of how seriously I can screw up two small people in the world if I'm not careful. Or even if I am careful.

In other news, we did have a wonderful weekend in New York City with my mom. She took us to see Elf and Wicked, and we saw the Rockefeller Center tree and the amazing windows on 5th avenue and stayed at the Marriot, and really had a magical Christmas adventure. So much joy. The only shadow on things was the same parenting issue I just described, which manifests in many ways. If Patrick and I manage nothing else in this parenting journey, I want to make sure that our children have a sense of appreciation for the good things they receieve, and the good things in the world, and an understanding that everything worth having comes from hard work. I know how hard my parents, and Patrick and I, had to work to afford the special things the girls got to see and do this weekend, and I just keep hoping that the message to appreciate both the tangible and the magical becomes a firm part of their foundation.

Working on it. All we can do is just keep on working on it.

Another Super Sunday

Today launches the busiest week of my year, made further complicated by my daughter's regional Irish Step Competition, "Gym Show," and the unmissable midnight Harry Potter premiere. I am so grateful to have the help of my Village, my parents who are taking Amelia to Rhode Island on Saturday, and the Saads who will have Abby basically all weekend long. It's a mad week in a mad life, but I know that at the end of this, Christmas music awaits.

Super Sunday is one of those events that can go one of two ways...it should be intense but not frantic, productive and exciting, a chance to cross things off the problem list, bringing us one giant step closer to the goal of a great opening. OR...it can be frazzled and full of strife, with over-tired teenagers crying and the staff bickering and snappish, and the gaping sense of "Holy shit...this thing is never going to be ready."

I have high hopes for option A today, and I'm trying very hard to not even entertain option B as a possibility. I have a particularly great group of kids this year, with only one lead who is not giving it his all. Peer pressure can be a useful tool, though, so rather than my continuing to nag him, I'm hoping that his more-serious peers will get him to cut the crap and focus already.

This will be my sixth production of Guys and Dolls, and by far the best one I have done. If it goes the way I think it will, it may turn out to be the best one I've ever seen, too. This is not me being arrogant, either...if anything, I am much more likely to err on the side of "Eh...it's fine" with the things that I direct. The fact that this one will be good really has very little to do with me. It's a perfect cast, really great musical numbers, and a super cool set. All of the elements are there...and it'll be my job this week to fine-tune it and make it all work. I'm up for the challenge.

My personal goal for this week? Avoid the snack table in the green room.

November Musings...

I’ve actually been doing quite a lot of journaling lately, but nothing much I wanted to share, so here are just a few little snapshots of my life right now.

I have a boy in my class who eats two bags of cheese-its exactly like a squirrel. He holds one cracker in his two hands, right up next to his mouth, and nibble nibble nibbles. He especially likes to do it when I’m reading aloud to the kids, so all I hear as I’m reading is the scrumple of his hands in the bag (as loudly as possible) and then nibble nibble nibble. Repeat repeatedly. Someday I will literally run screaming from the room smack in the middle of Tuck Everlasting.

Yesterday was one of those days where my mouth just ran away from me while giving notes to my leads, and I said something very dirty completely without meaning it…and then worse, sniggered. I totally didn’t mean it, and it was one of those moments I just wish I could Groundhog Day my way right back out of. Cringe-worthy. I hate when that happens. And then the memory of it is like a canker sore in your mouth that you can’t stop moving your tongue over.

I’m hosting Thanksgiving this year, and I am afraid. Though I love the hosting aspect, cooking has never been my thing, to say the least, and my new oven is un-tested under pressure. I suppose I should make some back-up reservations somewhere.

I will not even confess to you how excited I am to see the new Harry Potter movie. It defies description.

In the midst of my Autumn craziness, I have been extremely committed to my new self-improvement, bring-on-forty program. I have lost ten pounds so far, have started writing Morning Pages at 5:45 a.m. for a specialized version of the Artist’s Way (which I’ve been meaning to do for maybe fifteen years) and I’ve been working on getting my belting voice back to its former functionality. I am up to a dependable b-flat, and aiming for at least a C. I had an E once, for just a little while, back in the days of playing Little Red Ridinghood (for which I completely credit Peter Fernandez’ Kelly Warm-Up Mix tape.) Regardless, singing showtunes as loud as I can in my car up and down route 3 certainly raises my energy. No matter what happens, the process of getting ready to audition for something will have been worth it on its own.

Miley Cyrus had her coming-out-as-Hannah-Montana episode on Sunday night, and my girls discussed that in the car on the way to rehearsal yesterday. Said Amelia, “It’s really a big ending of something. I feel empty and confused.”

And to end today, three words:

Glee Christmas Album.

:)

40? Bring it.

I’m feeling surprisingly, and suddenly, obsessed with the idea of turning 40. And not in a bad way. It’s in a way that makes me feel kind of thrilled and excited. And strange little inspirations and entertainments keep finding me to reinforce the way I feel about it.

I’ve decided to lose 40 pounds by the time I turn 40. Not to impress anyone…not even to show that I can, but so that, for just a while, what I look like on the outside reflects how I feel inside. For one segment of my life, I want that particular kind of harmony, and feel capable of attaining it. Inside, at nearly 40, I feel more powerful and vibrant and enthusiastic about life than I ever have. I appreciate everything more…my friends, my family, a great meal or a perfect latte. I feel more present in my life, my REAL life, as it is, rather than I how I hope it will be, than I ever have before. So many people have told me that your 40’s are the best time of your life, and whether they’re lying or not, or just trying to make me feel better about this approaching milestone, I’m intending to make it so.

My children aren’t raised yet; I’m in the middle of that. My career is only partly how I would like it to be; I’m working toward that vision. (And in the meantime, I’m blooming where I’m planted in that regard.) I have ever so much left to do, to accomplish. But I’m digging the journey, right smack now. I am living an examined life, and delighting in the gifts that brings.

I had a good friend tell me not so long ago that my somewhere in my soul's past, I had to work to find my voice. I still feel like I'm looking for that, striving toward it, figuring out how to say what I need to say. Getting close to 40 is helping me to do that. I feel surrounded by people who are capable of using their voices, of speaking their truths and owning their own opinions about things. I want to be that aware, that certain, that in tune with the most authentic self I can be. The knowing, the wanting, the striving, is half the battle, don't you think? Noticing who is doing it "right," whatever that might mean for them, inspires me.

I am psyched for turning 40. Psyched for a vacation with my girlfriends, psyched to create the body I want, psyched to have an awesome family and the most glorious, magical group of friends a person ever had.

This weekend, I celebrate with them. I celebrate hotness at any age, certainty of belonging, and the sheer joy of having people around who know where I've been, and are eager to see where I'm going. And vice-freaking-versa. I LOVE them, and hope for them the most fulfilling, joyful lives they can possibly find. And I know that they will be there, and love me, no matter where the journey ends.

But the end doesn't matter now. It's the journey. It's always the journey, the yellow-brick-road. I can only hope that whom-soever you find on yours is a fraction as magical as the ones I find on mine. And I really do hope that for you.

Why No One Should Ever Give Me Plants

An Open Letter to Francie, the Bonsai Tree in the Athenaeum,

I knew it would come to this. I rejoiced when you arrived, so green and optimistic and unexpected, and I was so grateful to your sender, a friend whose support for my creative pursuits is boundless. I vowed with the best that was in me to nurture your verdant life energy, to talk to you and sing to you and honor you as a talisman for personal expression, and as the mascot of the Room of My own I for which I had so long pined.

But now you’re dead.

You are dry, irreparably ruined, and looking like a pitiful twisted, leafless twig from some Danny Elfman universe. Against all odds and my own personal history with plants, you showed some early potential. You held on through the summer, and then, with the coming of autumn, with the explosion of my schedule and the loss of my focus on home and hearth, you gave up. You quit me, and I’m trying hard not to take it personally. I recognize my responsibility for your fragile potted life, but I forgot you, and you keeled over and died in dramatic protest.

I blame myself completely. Your tragic demise is an apt metaphor for the loss of my life essence that grabs me by the throat every spring. And, you know, it’s ironic, because I’m actually feeling more fortified than I usually feel in the fall, but all of my energy is devoted elsewhere. What I have left after teaching sixth grade all day, and peppily directing a classic musical at night, is going to my children…to be more precise, to their laundry, and whatever I can throw into the crockpot. And as it turns out, when I get home at 8 and clean out the backpacks and put on my sweats, all I really want to do is sit on the couch with Patrick and watch Modern Family. My creativity points for the day are all used up, and I just want to sit down.

I have spent no more than business-like passing moments in the Athenaeum since school began, wandering in to find a purple marker or put a book on the shelf or to open or close the futon for the girls so they can watch a movie. I bought autumn Home-Sweet-Home candles for this fall that have yet to be lit, and my fainting couch, from which I intended to sit and watch the oak leaves fall, is currently covered with a pile of winter coats unpacked from storage that I haven’t yet had a chance to hang in the hall closet.

But, hey, the fact that I managed to unpack the winter coats is something, isn’t it? And the fact that my children are fed and clothed and generally wearing clean underwear is a comfort. And I’m getting better at snagging moments throughout the work day to nurture myself creatively, wherever I can. As I thought up this very blog entry, I was sitting at rehearsal while Pam staged the Crapshooters Ballet. My only job is to run the CD for her, and rather than tapping my foot and thinking of all of the other things I should be doing, I made the grocery list, figured out the plans for snacks and crafts and games for Abby’s little Halloween gathering with her schoolfriends on Friday, cropped a bunch of photographs, fine-tuned the rehearsal schedule for this week, and looked up a bunch of point values for snacks on the Weight Watcher ap on my phone.

That was four days ago. Now, it is Wednesday night, and I am actually here. It’s too late for the once-pert little Francie the Bonsai tree, but the fact that I can sit here now…that I carved out the time today…shows that the possibility of creating something, even in the autumn, still exists. This makes me wonder if perhaps there is still a shoot of green somewhere in this pretty plant, and that if I bring it to school tomorrow, my Shaman of a teaching partner might be able to coax it back to life…

Never give up.

Wearing Purple

I am wearing purple today, as part of a nation-wide inititative to raise awareness of the prevalence of gay and lesbian teen suicide in our country. And of course, I asked my sixth graders, "Does anyone know why I am wearing purple today?" A number of them did, and there followed a long discussion about it. The topic comes up every year for one reason or another, more often than not because I overhear someone using the word "gay" as an insult, or when we're reading Bridge to Terabithia and the father calls his son a sissy for loving to draw. I've been teaching for fifteen years, and it never ceases to surprise me how much easier the conversation becomes year to year. The world is changing, and though I can't be an activist like Jamie, I feel compelled to continue to play my part in that shift in mentatlity.

Today, the kids brought up Glee, and the characters of Kurt and his father, and a number of them literally said, "I don't get what the big deal is. Who cares who you like?" They talked about Don't Ask/Don't Tell, (none of it prompted by me, I swear) and one girl said, "My mother doesn't let me go to church anymore because of what the bible says about gay people." (I had to play that one cool...while I will profess my beliefs loud and proud when it comes to people's basic human equality, I have to tread carefully around religion, being as I have to also teach evolution, and all of the major religions of the world from the ancient Greeks to modern Buddhism and everything in between.)

The tone of the room, of the conversation, was so surprisingly relaxed, nothing like it would have been fifteen years ago, or ten, or even five. Yes, there were the couple of snickering boys, but there were more kids rolling their eyes at the snickerers, rathering than everyone just shifting uncomfortably, looking at the floor. And I know it's because of the hard work of the people on the front line, raising awareness, holding the rallies and raising the flags. I'm not that person, but I hope that if I do have a gay student in my class this year, there is at least the tiny part of them that knows that the conversation is okay to have, it's not going to be as bad as they think...it gets better.