I Want to See Santaaaa!!!

I'm a klutz, I guess. The lady at the jewelers told me that twice in almost five years is "less likely a bizarre coincidence, than it is your using that hand to do more"...or something like that. Basically, she was telling me in a nice way that bending the titanium prongs on my wedding ring is not a defect in their jewelry. It's because I'm klutzy and hard on my rings. So...having noticed one of my prongs "off", I had to relinquish my jewels for repair. My hand felt unbelievably awkward without my rings for the two weeks they were away. But it was worth the wait knowing they'd be renewed to their former glory.

After what seemed like forever, I finally got the call saying the repairs had been made, and that I could come and pick up my rings. I loaded up the girls and made a special trip into town (have y'all gotten the idea yet that I don't get out unless I have to?!). I only had Emma with me the day I dropped them off, so getting through the mall with both girls would prove a slightly greater challenge. With it about the be the weekend, and the season of Christmas shopping, it was a less that ideal time to brave the mall, but we parked, and made our way to the entrance.

Looking ahead to the doors we were to go through, I noticed a familiar couple not too far ahead of us. The man was wearing a bright red suit, with a great black belt and buckle, and sported a full white beard. His wife wore a red velvet floor length dress, trimmed with white fur. Yes, indeed, it was St. Nick and his red-cheeked bride, Mrs. Claus! I motioned to Olivia, and said: "Olivia, look who's here!". I wish I could have captured the look on her face when she saw them. She gripped my hand a bit tighter, and moved from walking slowly behind me, to nearly dragging me behind. We haven't talked about Santa all that much, but from the Christmas shows and books she's seen and heard, she was desperate to meet the big man.

Once inside the mall, we were able to catch up with Santa. Even in my estimation, he looked pretty genuine. I told Olivia she could go say hi, and she was nearly speechless when he turned to her, said hello, and commented on her pretty Christmas tree shirt. After that, he and Mrs. Claus turned to go downstairs. I guess their smoke break was up, and it was time to go back to taking pictures with the kiddies.

We headed for the jewelery store, but Olivia kept her eyes on Santa Claus as long as she possibly could. When she could no longer see him, she began asking me if we could go find him. I said we could, but only after we stopped to pick up my rings. While in line at the jewelers, she continued to ask about finding Santa. He truly was all she could think about. Her desire to find him again was only usurped by the eminent need she had to use the bathroom. Evidently the excitement of seeing St. Nick stirred more than her joy.

Once back from an emergency trip to the bathroom, we walked along the upper floor, and spotted a wintry wonderland down below. Walking closer, we saw him in all his glory, sitting on a throne of lies, surrounded by poinsettias, and totally fake snow. Kids and their parents with credit cards in hand were lined up 20 deep to get pictures with Santa. We stood, admiring Santa and his wonderland for a bit longer, before it was time to go. I genuinely appreciated her wonderment. She'd never seen a Santa before, nor ever been to a mall. Everything was enormous, new, and contained everything fun and beautiful. I let her soak it in and admired her excitement.

Appreciating her wonderment, but now desperately needing to return for naps, I informed my minions that it was time to go home. Those words seemed to be a death sentence on the Christmas spirit, and with them marked the moment Olivia's legs gave out. All of a sudden she was unable to walk, or speak rationally. All she could do was cry out: "I waaaaaaant to seeeee Saaaaaaaanta!!!". I quickly realized what great acoustics the mall possesses, and began making a dash for the door.

Unable to both carry Emma and drag Olivia, I pulled a: "I'm really sorry that we have to go home now, but I can't carry you. If you want to go with me, then you need to walk."

**crickets**

I took a few steps, pretending to walk away from her, which suddenly gave her the strength to rise up off the floor, and run screaming, to grab my hand. I tried to distract her, because a few steps later we were out the door. When she heard the doors close, that's when it got real. She knew we weren't going back in, so the drama increased ten-fold. She lost the use of her legs again, flopped down onto the concrete walkway, and kept crying to go back and see Santa. Loudly.

I moved her over to sit on a stone bench, and decided it would be a good time to do a little filming. Let me tell you, I've got some gems. Filming enabled me to not get too concerned that it was my child disturbing the peace, and focus on capturing some great family memories. A few passers-by pursed their lips at the scene she was making, while other, more generous ones nodded and smiled in my direction, as if to say "I've been there."

After so long, I decided it was time to pack up the party, and finally get home. My poor, extremely tired, star-struck, and disappointed girl, ended up requiring help to the car. I made quite the pack-mule with Emma in the carrier, purse over my left shoulder, and Olivia held to my right. She cried for a while in the car. That is until I began watching the blackmail video(s) of her, at which point she dried her tears and wanted to watch, too. Uhh-huh.

That was last week, and as I've retold this story to a few friends and family, something has slowly been eating away at me with each telling. Olivia's response to seeing Santa was precious, as was her desire to be near him. In between dramatic pleas, I asked what she wanted to do if we went back in to see Santa, and she responded: "I just want to seeeee him! He wants us to stay!".

I absolutely can't blame her for acting like that. She's heard stories about Santa, and seen pictures, but there he was in the flesh. Living, breathing...the very man himself. Even as the magic and excitement of birthdays and holidays has waned with my adulthood and increased responsibilities, I still remember being a kid, and having that intense sense of wonderment. It's a precious thing that I want to foster in my kids for as long as I can.

So, what's my problem you ask? Simply put, during this season of celebrating Christ's birth, as I see my child with the utmost longing to be near Santa, I must ask myself: "Am I as zealous to spend as much time with Jesus?". I have to confess to getting "busy". Sure, I've got kiddos that keep my hands pretty full, a home to maintain, and some animals that require tending, but that's no excuse. During this season of Advent, am I truly counting down the days to His birth with anticipation? Am I intentional with my time so I can be still and listen to Him? And I anxious just to be near Him? And when life presses in and time is running short, will I kick and scream my way to His throne just for a little more time?

These are only hard questions if the answer is no.

While I feel myself falling short of where I want to be, at the same time, I feel His grace drawing me in. Telling me He's still on His throne of truth, waiting for me to sit at His feet; just to spend time with Him. He's not absent during smoke breaks, or limited to working hours. He's available, and wants me and you to be available, too. To be present.

While Olivia's story with Santa is amusing, I hope that you'll let it remind you, as it has me, of our greater need to long for, and desperately seek out time with our Lord. Not to simply be satisfied with warm fuzzy thoughts about him, but to enter into His presence, through time in the word, and in worship. And yes, if we must, even do a little kicking and screaming for more time just to be near Him.

My Trip to the ER

On our way home from Thanksgiving with my family, I muttered the following to Andrew:

"I feel sorry for my blog. It's like life hasn't been eventful enough to blog about. Or maybe I'm just too tired to think anything is funny anymore."

Andrew gave me a look, as if to say "For real?". He then gently pointed out that not 15 minutes prior to my somber musing, our eldest daughter has taken the liberty of using her new gift of princess pink chap-stick to paint her lips. And cheeks, knees, and car seat. As well as smear gobs of the stuff all across her window. Never mind the fact that Andrew had just detailed the truck before our trip, and that it now smelled like flowery pink wax. Nope, that minor event was just a quickly passing blip in my mind. I don't know what I was thinking, but my friends, I'm here to tell you to be careful of what you ask for.

For a little back-story, I'll fill you in that I had a cold the week heading into Thanksgiving. Genius that I am, at the tail end of my cold, I grew really tired of my sniffles, and took some herbal stuff to dry that sucker up. It did. Most effectively. So, once the holiday and festivities were over, I thought my cold was, too.

But it was not.

Upon our return home, I started feeling a little funny. There was a strange pressure in my sinuses. "No big deal.", I thought. That's normal after having a cold, right? It however was not normal. Very muchly not normal.

As it turns out, my fabulous idea of drying up that cold backfired on me. The herbs dried it up, but the cold stayed in my sinuses, and became the perfect breeding ground for a raging sinus infection. I say raging, because my right sinus was so badly infected that it agitated the roots of my teeth. I couldn't eat. I couldn't sleep. Even thinking straight was nearly out as a possibility. All that Sunday night I could feel my heartbeat pounding away in my teeth. It was like hearing the drumbeat to my own execution. Being awake all night long gave me ample time to rethink my life, question how I'm doing as a wife and mother, as well as mourn the things I should have been doing...since surely, this horrible infection would be the end of me. At least that's how it felt.

When normal business hours arrived Monday morning, the girls and I were found in town checking in with a doctor. I was pretty straight with the lady and told her I was ready for some antibiotics to roundhouse kick the infection in the butt. So, maybe I didn't say it exactly like that, but her checkup confirmed that I did indeed have a sinus infection, and it would require antibiotics. I usually avoid such things like the plague, but as it felt like I had a plague, I was ready to take anything if it meant feeling better.

Once my prescription was fulfilled, I quickly loaded the girls into their car seats, locked us in, and dove into that goody bag of meds. I took what she'd prescribed, and pointed the car home. Being in "town" with all the big chain stores usually means a big errand day when I make the effort to leave our small town. However, as my face was surely seconds away from exploding, I released myself from the guilt of not making the most of the trip, and made peace with simply getting our carcasses home.

Monday night came and was a close mirror of the previous one. The drum beat was throbbing away in my teeth, which around 1am had me on Google, finding reassurance that antibiotics can take up to 24 hours to kick in. So it said. Deceitful beast.

On very little sleep, I awoke Tuesday morning feeling very much...not myself. This time it was more than my teeth or the excruciating sinus pressure. My face. Something about my face wasn't right. I sat up and realized that I couldn't feel part of it. I went into the bathroom and beheld a horrible sight.

If you've ever seen the movie "Fun with Dick and Jane", then you have a perfect idea of what I looked like. In the movie, Jane participates in a botox trial to earn a few bucks while they're desperate for cash during Dick's indictment. At the completion of the trial, the doctor is reading the results, noting that only two people had serious reactions to the trial. As you can only imagine, Jane was one of the lucky winners, leaving her with an enormously swollen face, and distorted lips. THAT my friends, was the face before me on Tuesday morning. Even Andrew was impressed with the enormity of my lips, calling me his "Botox Princess". Very funny. And while I'm at it, I shouldn't say lip...because it was only the top right portion of my face that was swollen. Lovely.

Once again, as soon as business hours were upon us, I was on the phone with the doctor, attempting to figure out what to do. She told me I'd need an x-ray or CT scan, which unfortunately are only available at the hospital. Still in desperate pain, now wearing a distorted face, unable to put my teeth together or close my lips, I talked it over with Andrew and decided to turn myself into the ER. It seemed so stupid going to the hospital, but in the event that more drastic measures need be taken, that was the best place to be. Andrew rearranged his schedule so he could stay with the girls and work from home. He had to get a few things from the office, so I had half and hour to get ready before I could go to the hospital. I showered, but after that, there was only so much I could do to improve on "Botox Princess".

I pulled up to the ER equipped with my kleenex, essential oil hand sanitizers, and bag of prescribed meds and began my journey to the sliding glass doors. A male nurse was outside on his phone, and watched me approach; likely assessing what triage category I fell into. I felt like Quasimodo as I attempted to smile and look normal as I passed him, but my swollen lips wouldn't comply, and it likely looked more like a snarl.

The lady at check-in was kind and prompt, and I was soon sitting in the waiting room. I hadn't been waiting long before a nurse came through a large door with a wheelchair. I saw her speak to the lady at the desk, and noticed them looking at me. I busied myself with my phone, but couldn't avoid the fact that the chair was for ME after she called my name "Geena?". I walked over, ignoring the chair, and we chatted about the events that led me there. She said she'd take me back, and though I asked if it was REALLY necessary, she told me just to sit down and relax.

Being wheeled around was a strange experience and not in the least bit relaxing. Not just because I didn't NEED to be in one, but mainly because of the loss of control over the situation that I felt slip away. In a group text amongst my family, my Aunt put it best: "You are no longer human. When you are in the ER, you might as well be a one-hundred-something pound Petri dish." She further commented that: "Something about that place makes you feel like you are going to live out the rest of your days under the fluorescent lights, never to see the sun again."

Her humor was timely, because I was wheeled into a room dingily lit with fluorescent lights, and instructed to strip from my comfortable clothing and put on a ghastly, thin, and highly starched hospital gown. I hesitated, but obeyed. A few nurses were in and out of that room...I wasn't entirely sure who was caring for me, but I told my story about half a dozen times before the doctor came in. He told me I was likely having an allergic reaction to my medication, and that he'd be prescribing me some new stuff. Oh, and I'd also receive a shot in the butt before I left. He asked if I had any questions, and was soon on his way. The end.

No X-rays?! No CT scan?! I was relieved, but was also wondering why the heck I'd gone to the hospital. They say hindsight is 20-20, so for the information I had at the time, that was the place I needed to be. Even still, I felt like it was all a bunch of overkill. I was ready to protest when a random nurse walked in and asked if she should start my iv, but another nurse interjected that it was unnecessary as I was nearly on my way out. Thank goodness. The walls were starting to close in, and I was ready to get my new prescription!

Since I was reacting to my original medication, the Doctor ordered a steroid shot before I left, to help take the swelling down. I'd heard rumors about where steroid shots go, and a quick inquiry from the experiences within my family group text confirmed that I should prepare my tushy to be a receiver. I'm not a fan of shots, but have come a looooooooooooong way from the days of passing out. I think childbirth has had something to do with this.

Anyway, the nurse came in with a very large needle, and I made like it was no big deal, and took it like the strong farm woman I want to be. There was indeed a burning sensation down my leg from the shot, so once that was done, I changed out of the gown, gathered my belongings, and began limping for the door. I was free.

After quick stop at the pharmacy for my new, non-allergic reaction inducing meds, and then I was home. My hero-husband and peanut gallery received me, I smiled my puffy smile at them, relieved that all would soon be well again...and then I slept. For three hours.

And that's the tale of how blog fodder is created from rogue colds that turn into raging sinus infections. And explains why my brain is still a bit foggy after such an eventful week. Next time I'm feeling hard up for blog material, I'll be sure to keep it to myself.