The Santa Squabble Update

When I wrote my original post detailing our plans for Santa-free lives years ago, I did it with great conviction, if not a slight touch of naiveteˊ. You see, I didn't exactly know what would lie ahead, only that we believed whole-heartedly in our future December traditions. For those of you thinking of following in our wildly unpopular footsteps, here are my thoughts six years in...

Unexpected Hurdle #1: Addison did, in fact, spill the beans to at least one child that we know of; thankfully we seem to have moved past the holding-the-breath moments we previously experienced whenever Santa was mentioned around her. We've role-played, begged, reminded, and explained more times than we can count. If you know Addison, you know she is a very matter-of-fact child, and in her mind, a statement from a person is absolutely true. And so if it is not true, it must be a lie. Trying to get her to understand the complexities of Santa has proven to be much more difficult than we expected. Each year we discuss the real Saint Nicholas with her; we read a book about him and how he relates to today's Santa traditions. Then in the simplest terms, we remind her that some parents like to play pretend with their children, and that it is not up to her to ruin their game. She has tried so hard to understand all the whys, but our explanation still doesn't make sense to her, and that has proven to be the biggest obstacle so far.

Unexpected Hurdle #2: We knew before we ever had Addison that we did not want Santa to come to our house. However, what I didn't expect was to have so much guilt years into the choice. At first, all of the "I feel sorry for her" laments and incredulous questions just made me defensive. But as the years have passed, I've found myself letting others' doubts creep in. Did we make a mistake? Will she be scarred for life? Is she missing out? Are we ruining her childhood? When Addison looked at me recently and said, "Mommy, I'm glad you didn't make me believe in any of that fantasy stuff," my heart broke just a little.

Unexpected Hurdle #3: While we discovered early on that the rejection of Santa led to unwanted commentary, we also found that it led to others feeling judged for their own family choices. I promise, we aren’t judging! It is just so hard--harder than we ever expected--to try and explain the reasons behind an unpopular conviction you have and not sound holier-than-thou. Even now, years later, no matter how I try and spin it when people ask, and ONLY when they ask, our Santa-less existence ends many a December conversation in uncomfortable silence. I've tried self-deprecation, subject changes, simple statements--nothing seems to change the inevitable awkwardness that follows the now-dreaded Santa conversation.

That's not to say it's all been bad, or even difficult. In fact, while I didn't quite understand all of the small hurdles we would face, I am ashamed to say that I definitely didn't expect the many blessings that I have seen come out of our choice.

The biggest blessing of all is that Addison has completely embraced the true meaning of Christmas. She understands it all so much more than I ever did as a kid. She is fully focused on Jesus--the real reason for the season. Instead of the elf, we hide a star every night, which she truly looks forward to finding. She leaves her Wise Men at the spot where she finds the star each morning, and the next night we do it again. On Christmas morning, she will find the star above the manger scene. We still do most of the same things Erik and I did as children, and she still gets a stocking from us, but she is not really focused on receiving gifts; she is all about the giving. This year, she surprised us by telling us she didn't want any presents from us. She wanted instead to go pick out toys for someone who needed them more than she did. That was one of my proudest mommy moments. I know that we could not have bought nearly as much for "Zach"--yes, Addison named our Angel Tree kiddo--if we had to pretend to be Santa for her. It makes it a much bigger sacrifice for her knowing she won't get presents from us at all, and sacrificial giving is something we are constantly working towards as a family. Do I believe that God is blessing us because we don't celebrate Santa? No, I believe that the blessing comes from following our convictions, and in this matter they are different for everyone.

So do I wish I could go back in time and change our Christmas traditions? When Addison thanked me in regards to the "fantasy stuff," she truly meant it. She is the most logical little human I've ever met, and there is little room for gray in her world. We didn't know who she would be someday when we began to follow our conviction, but I can't help but think that God was already steering us towards what would be best for her. I can honestly say no, I don't think we would change one single Santa-less thing.

SIX-ty Miles an Hour

My precious, precocious, brilliant, vivacious daughter, 

Six years have come and gone. Six years since you made me a mommy. Six years since you changed my life forever. Six years of ups and downs and smiles and laughter and tears. 

Addison, I cannot possibly put into words how you have bettered me. You inspire me. On my hardest days, God uses you to lift my spirits, and on my happiest days, you multiply my joy. Little girl, you are extraordinary. Your wit, kindness, generosity, intelligence and unique insight are such a powerful combination; God is going to use you for big things.

God has gifted you in so many ways. This year saw you take up piano, advance into chapter books, and pursue art with a passion. While you may not be the next Mozart or Picasso, you still amaze us daily with all you are capable of. Your potential is limitless.

You are a born teacher. While you may never choose to stand in front of a classroom, you will teach in some capacity--that much is certain. Daddy and I are your favorite students, and you frequently help us learn new words in Spanish or demand that we raise our hands to speak at the dinner table. You love telling us all the things you will do someday when you have your own classroom, and oh, how we love to hear your grand ideas.

You have worked so hard at making new friends this year. I love watching you play with others and just act like a kid. Because you are so rarely around anyone your age outside of school, we often view you as a mini adult. But seeing you run and laugh, tossing all carries and worries aside, makes my heart sing.

You may not be perfect, but you are the perfect little girl for me, and I thank God daily for the gift of you.

I love you, my favorite.

Mommy

But God...

Grief has been a common theme throughout many of my posts. Razor-sharp grief has split me in two on more than one occasion, but it has also been a binding thread, connecting me to so many women that share components of my story.

Just recently, another close friend lost her baby before she ever got to meet it. I was able to counsel her, listen to her, advise her, and just be there for her in an experienced way that most others, thankfully, could not. She asked me one day how I endured it all during those dark years, why I no longer spend my days constantly grieving and longing for the babies I will never get to hold on this earth. I answered her in two words that our pastor once made into an entire sermon:  

But God.

For three years, I lived in a waking nightmare of hospital visits, surgeries, tests, ultrasounds, hormones, specialists, needles, blood, incompetence, heartbeats and no heartbeats, shots, and silence. I cried out; I wrestled; I screamed; I pleaded. After the fifth loss, I often felt more like a hollow shell than an actual person. I experienced many moments of grief that left me prone on the floor, silently begging for it all to swallow me up because my spent tears and hoarse voice had left me with absolutely nothing else.  

As I tried to comfort those suffering through their own tragedies, I fought desperately to gain perspective. I worked with people who lost their beautiful, vibrant children or beloved spouses in terrible accidents. People who saw a loved one suffer through a cancer diagnosis. I witnessed both of my grandpas endure some of the cruelest things this world has to offer in their dying days. I watched people struggle through their grief and come out stronger on the other side, and I watched some who seemed as though they would never get out from under it. I know for a long time, it could have gone either way for me. 

But God. 

He faithfully restored my marriage. He brought friends into my life who shared the same beliefs. He prompted me to write and share my story with other women who were in pain. And on the most difficult days, he reminded me that even though it hurt, I was not hurting alone. In my weakest, most painful moments, his strength was revealed. 

When God blessed me with Addison, she didn't fill the void of the babies that I lost. Only God could do that. He bound up my heart with his own healing thread of grace and contentment and love, and he filled it with a peace that passes all understanding. And even now, on the occasions when pain lurks around hidden corners and sometimes dwells in the shadows of my heart, he is there, ever faithful with his perfect comfort. While I would never wish to walk that three-year road again, it changed me for the better. Places that were hard and angry are now soft and sympathetic. Pride has been replaced with humility. Striving to do it all on my own has given way to surrender. I don't wrestle with what I went through anymore; it is a part of who I am. It has given me a powerful testimony, and it has prepared me for whatever lies in front of me. I'm no longer apprehensive about the future because I know that even on the hardest days ahead...

But God. 

But [God] said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.
2 Corinthians 12:9-10 NIV

A Work of Heart

I have been thinking a lot about the situation our teachers are facing in Oklahoma. I have read just about every opinion piece circulating, mostly for the strike, but some against. I have rattled words and words and words around in my head, asking myself if I have even one bit of new perspective to add to an already thoroughly dissected issue. I'm not really sure, but I'm going to try.

I taught in public schools for nine years. My first couple of years were fine, but things quickly changed to not fine at all. Nine years is but a fraction of the time many of my friends have taught, but nine years was enough for me. For my tenth year, I left to teach at a private school. I love teaching. I love watching kids learn, and I love when they surprise themselves with what they are capable of doing and creating. I love connecting with them, and I love knowing at the end of the year that I may have made some small difference in even one life. I still struggle with feeling a bit like a traitor, leaving my teammates behind. But I am still teaching, only now without all of the things I didn't love.

You see, I didn't love being told exactly what to teach and when to teach it, regardless of whether or not my students had grasped a concept and were ready to move on. I didn't love when a very high-ranking administrator told me that I was NOT to teach writing (or really anything but reading and math), because it was not on the state tests. I didn't love going behind that administrator's back and teaching it anyway, because it was what was best for the kids, but knowing that I very well could be answering for it later. I didn't love teaching to the test because my school would be judged by the performances of students who had a parent arrested the week of testing, or had been told that their parents were splitting up that same month, or a host of other things I saw happen come April. Funnily enough, kids don't care very much about a test when their lives are falling apart around them. I didn't love spending so much time focused on getting the low students to pass the test that I had no time to challenge the ones that were above the cut-off scores. I went home many nights thinking that another day had gone by that I had failed to connect with those kids that rested solidly in the middle, and that ate away at me. I didn't love hearing that I "only taught 10 months out of the year" so my pay was actually more than fair, even though when I worked out my hourly wage with all the extra hours I put in, it was somewhere around $13 an hour (which wasn't too far from what I made working retail in college). I mean, we pay our high school babysitters $10 an hour to play with our one kiddo! I didn't love spending so much of my money on supplies and things for my classroom, but it didn't occur to me that things should be any other way, because I had seen my parents (who were also teachers) do it for many years before I ever did; their careers offered just a glimpse into the unseen sacrifices I would be expected to make as a teacher. I didn't love when the copy count for our classrooms started to be limited; when people who had never seen us teach started questioning how much we chose to copy (and by extension questioning our professional judgement) through an inanimate object. And I didn't love when the standards kept changing and changing and changing and we were forced to spend many long hours of our own time trying to bend and revamp our curriculum in order to push our kids to learn things that seemed to be more developmentally inappropriate by the year. The list could go on and on, but that's not really the point. 

The point is that many, many of my friends are doing their jobs, and doing them extremely well, despite all of these things, and so many more things that lawmakers have never thought about for a second. My friends have taken on more and more every year, and they have done it under the radar, with such little recognition and respect that it still shocks me sometimes, now that I'm on the outside looking in. Were I still part of the public school system, I would walk in a heartbeat, not because I didn't care about my students, but because I absolutely did. Trust me when I say that if your child is being taught by someone who is still sticking it out despite professionally deplorable conditions in many cases, it is ONLY because they love their kids, your kids. It is definitely not about the money. According to the opposition, that's what getting a second job is for...

My Skin Cancer Story

The phone rang. I saw the number, and I knew I was about to find out whether or not I had skin cancer. I almost didn't answer; after all, I had had the flesh-colored mole checked by my doctor and 2 different dermatology physician assistants over the past three years, each one more sure than the last that it was nothing. But even as I heard the kind voice on the phone telling me that I did, indeed, have basal cell carcinoma, I told myself that it was nothing to worry about, just a quick in-and-out procedure; maybe I'd have to sport a little band-aid for a few days. They gave me the choice as to whether I wanted to receive radiation or to have the spot removed. After a few days of going back and forth, I chose the Mohs surgery because it seemed more final. I just wanted it gone, and I didn't want to commit to 20 sessions of radiation over 6 weeks for something that may not work or something I might have a bad reaction to. I spent some sleepless nights after the surgery was scheduled searching online in hopes of finding anyone with a similar story to mine (same age, same place, etc.), just for some idea of what the end result might look like.

I went in for the Mohs surgery thinking that I was pretty sure as to what to expect during the procedure. Goodness knows I had read enough about it. I knew that it could take hours for them to analyze the margins of the section they took, and that there is often a need for a second or third cut, followed by more waiting each time. I had pictured them taking off a few layers from the top of the mole, testing them, and then shaving down a bit further if needed, until I had maybe a tiny laceration above my upper lip (something like cutting thin layers off of a tree stump). The smell as the doctor cauterized my flesh literally right under my nose was something I will never forget. As far as pain, I felt nothing but pressure. I sat patiently and waited for the doctor to come back with the test results. When he came back and said that he had gotten clear margins after only one pass, I couldn't believe it. I figured it would be a very small little cut, and I wasn't worried at all until he told me that he was going to need to refer me to a plastic surgeon because he didn't feel comfortable handling the level of reconstructive surgery that I required. Apparently, in actuality, after he numbed me, he had dug a perfectly round hole out just above my top lip (think excavator). My heart started pounding, and I was not prepared for what I saw when I finally mustered up the courage to look.

When I saw the picture Erik took of the hole in my face, I started to cry. We had just seen Wonder Woman, and I envisioned myself looking like Dr. Maru when it was all said and done. Unfortunately, this image stayed in my head for quite some time.

When we met the plastic surgeon (who is younger than I am) just an hour or so later, he immediately set to work explaining how he would fix things and move things and skin flaps and asymmetry and honestly, it was over my spinning head. I just told him I trusted him and would see him soon. He covered the hole in my face back up and sent me on my way until the following day when I could see him for the surgery. I didn't know what he could possibly do that would fix something like that, but I went in bravely, ready to be sewed up. The surgery was more intense than the Mohs surgery. He let me pick the OR music, and I laid on a steel table while they numbed me up and covered my face with a paper sheet. I was awake through the whole thing, and again, that smell of burning flesh threatened to make me sick right there in the OR. I asked the doctor at one point why my lip was twitching so badly, wondering if he had struck a nerve or something. He assured me that it was just his assistant putting cotton swabs into the hole while he was stitching up the muscle. It was a weird feeling. Then they moved to the outside stitches, and I began to relax. He was calming, confident, and funny, and I knew I was in good hands.

When it was over, he told me he would see me a few times over the next two months, and then I would switch to seeing him every three months. The initial recovery was not quite as easy as I had thought it would be. The surgeon told me that I had to stay in bed for a full week, and that I could only get up for absolute necessities; that may have been the hardest part. I couldn't even give Addison a hug in case she were to accidentally hit the stitches; I felt like a terrible mom. To make matters worse, I could not even open my mouth to eat, and I was not allowed to use a straw at all. My lips were so swollen, I looked like the victim of a botched lip augmentation. We had quite a time figuring out how to get me nourishment with me not being able to move my lips. FYI, eating a smoothie with a baby spoon takes HOURS. I had to have everything I ate completely blended, and I was so thankful during that time to have some wonderful moms from the school bring me amazing soups. I went through a lot of towels too, because when you can't close your lips, things tend to dribble right back out. I really could not talk at all (it turns out that having your lips touch is important to making coherent sounds) and if I was even tempted to laugh, the pain of stretching the stitches stopped me quickly. Once the surgeon took the stitches out though, it was a fairly easy recovery. I experienced lots of stabbing pains and uncomfortable twitching as the nerves regenerated, but it was bearable. . Once I was released to the outside world, I was religious in putting on my scar cream and keeping my scar out of the sun, and that allowed me to regain mobility and heal faster than my doctor expected. In fact, at my last checkup, he asked me if I even wanted to discuss the idea of having laser resurfacing, and when I told him no, he didn't bat an eye.

I have included some pictures below to show the initial "hole" and then the recovery, as this is the thing I could not find much about (except for the worst case scenarios) on my many late nights of searching and wondering. Will it come back? Will I still look like myself? Will this scar be the very first thing people notice about me from now on? In six more months, when my scar is no longer under doctor care, I am sure I will be even happier with the results, but right now, in this moment, I can say I rarely remember that I have it or worry what people are thinking about it. In fact, I tried to take a picture of it many different times in many different lights to show my six month picture, and although it is still visible in the mirror, it hardly shows up in pictures, if at all. I am still worried about the fact that I am likely to have more skin cancer in the future, but all I can do now is stay out of the sun and be vigilant with sunscreen. The damage has already been done. I can count on both hands the number of times I have visited a tanning salon, but I did receive many bad sunburns when I was a kid/teen, and with my fair skin and family history, it seems that me getting skin cancer was just a matter of time.

A word of advice: If you have a spot that you are even the least bit suspicious of, please go get it checked BY AN ACTUAL DERMATOLOGIST. It's what they're trained in and what they do. Get a referral if necessary. Do not just blindly trust your primary care doctor or settle for a PA. If I had trusted myself and ignored their "It's nothing!" assurances over the years, chances are it would have been a quick freeze for a precancerous growth. Instead it had time to take root and grow over a long span of time. Listen to yourself and go with your gut. Demand that they test the spot if they don't offer. You are your own best advocate. I wish it hadn't taken me so long to become mine!

The hole in my face...deep and round enough to swallow a dime.
The dots around it indicate how much bigger it could have been had the margins not been clear.

Stitches before the swelling set in

People actually pay for their lips to look like this?!

A month out...no makeup on it. I was already having trouble getting the scar to show up well in pictures.