THE ZEN OF A GREAT OFFICE CHRISTMAS PARTY

Last week was our office Christmas party.  It wasn't one of those ornate, fancy ordeals.   That's not what our small law firm is all about.  My husband, Duncan, and I started the firm so we could raise our family with some semblance of normalcy.  Assuming life with two hair-on-fire sons, more than one demented dog, and a proclivity to dance to Eric Clapton while making pancakes on Saturday mornings would ever be considered normal.  

The party was at our house.  As people arrived, they were were greeted by Duncan in his white chef's jacket.  He decided to roast a whole lamb in his La Caja China (a/k/a the huge steel box I bought him that lets him hang out in the great outdoors on a testosterone high and talk with our sons and other men about meat and fire). I decided to have everything else catered, so I was inside sipping sangria.  No surprise there. 

For 28 years I've given gag gifts to everyone at the party.  Historically, this has involved a vast assortment of goodies, including a life-size mannequin, night vision goggles, an inflatable pool, full hazmat suits, and an audible "No!" button (think the Staples "Easy" button, but with enough attitude for the one paralegal in our office who can keep Duncan in line).   It's no surprise that, each year, Duncan and I fire everyone when they arrive, then hire them back when they leave.  There's no reason to have the Human Rights Commission on our backs.  

This year I hired a magician.  Not the scary guy who hangs out downtown on Friday nights with a grimy deck of cards.  I tracked down a professional whose resume includes a gig on Good Morning America, and who discreetly asked me, in advance, whether he could use the word "fart" in his show.   At one point, I thought about asking him to make Duncan disappear, but then I realized that I wouldn't know how to finish cooking the lamb.  So, instead, I asked him to cut our newest paralegal in half (just so she felt especially welcome), but he declined.  Clearly, he had his standards.  Flatulence, yes; bloodshed, no.  

As the evening drew to a close, I experienced what my dear friend, Maggie, calls a "Kodak" moment.  I was standing in the kitchen, holding my sleeping infant granddaughter in my arms, and my son (who worked at our office a few summers, and still holds the record for our biggest IRS victory) leaned over to give me a kiss.  Time stood still.  I looked around the room, and saw my extraordinary paralegal with whom I've worked for 25+ years, and who is now family to me.  I saw our whip-smart associate, who will someday, very capably, take over our legal legacy.  My millennial social media intern was there.  She's now a successful entrepreneur, and I couldn't help but feel more than a random bit of pseudo-motherly pride.  The young law student whom Duncan and I mentor was chatting with our bookkeeper and her husband (I know they're legally married because I performed their marriage ceremony seven years ago).  And amidst it all, our law partner's wife smiled at me.  She knew exactly what I was thinking.   She and her husband were the only people in the room who'd known Duncan and me since forever.  Since before our children.  Since before Duncan and I moved to a completely new town, with two toddlers and not a single client, to start our own law practice.  Since before everything I was looking at in the kitchen had happened.  

This year, our Christmas party reminded me that work is more than tasks and deadlines.  It's about helping others reach their potential, supporting people when they face professional challenges and personal loss (Duncan and my lifelong paralegal both lost their fathers this year), and creating an environment where grownups actually want to do the office "happy dance" when good things happen.  I hope you are one of the lucky ones, and get to spend time with colleagues who help you embrace ordinary moment that make life extraordinary.  Even (especially!) when it's not payday.