As a former teacher, I’m allowed to say this. I do not believe teachers can possibly understand the power they hold in regards to the lives of the children they teach. Yes, I’ve been out of the classroom longer than I was in it at this point - I taught kindergarten and reading for seven years and Charlie is nine – but I believe seven years in an early childhood classroom, along with a master’s degree, warrants at least some expertise when it comes to education. Still, until my own children began attending school, I did not comprehend the magnitude of the role teachers play in the development of their students.

I was a good teacher. Some might even say I was a great one. My principal called me one of the best teachers he’d ever seen and people, he was old; he’d seen a lot. He told me dozens of parents sent him notes every summer requesting him to place their children in my class. He asked me to share lesson plans with veteran teachers, mentor first year teachers, serve as the grade chairperson, and pilot new curriculum. I had complete confidence in myself in the classroom. I believed my students were in an excellent educational environment. I still do.

I found success in the classroom. I taught my students to read, write, add and subtract. I taught them to recognize vowels, consonants, blends, and rhyming words. I taught them to count syllables, measure inches, and hypothesize results. I taught them the differences between cities, states, and countries. I taught them the differences between periods, questions marks, and exclamation points. I taught them to raise their hands to speak, to use polite manners, to take turns on the playground, to share toys during center time. I taught them, and I taught them, and I taught them. For one-hundred and eighty days I taught them, and I know I taught them well.

Now that I have my own children, however, I realize my job as a kindergarten teacher didn’t have much at all to do with teaching. My job as a kindergarten teacher was to help my students love themselves and love learning, and those are some serious responsibilities my friends. There’s a whole lot more that goes into nurturing the spirit of a child than creating dynamic lesson plans and engaging activities and quality assignments. Yes, teaching skills is both necessary and important, and it occurs every day in classrooms all over the world, but training a child to acknowledge their self-worth and the worth of others is a major undertaking. Making a notable impact on a child’s heart is more than a career choice. It’s a lofty goal, a significant objective, a chosen mindset . . . a purpose.

As a parent, I have witnessed the influence a teacher can have on a child from an entirely different perspective. Now, I can fully understand the weight of the words teachers speak, the behaviors they model, and the values they impart. Next to my husband and me, our children spend the majority of their time with their teachers. And Charlie and Libby won’t simply learn to multiply, divide, and proofread from these people. They will learn to express their ideas, thoughts, and feelings. They will learn to separate facts from opinions. They will learn how to respond to challenges and how to encourage their peers. They will learn organization and planning and patience and determination and perseverance and the power of a positive attitude. Most importantly, they will learn how to love themselves and how to treat others.

I enjoyed being with kids from an early age. In fact, most of my jobs as an adolescent involved caring for or instructing young children – I was a babysitter, I gave swimming lessons, I coached gymnastics. I suppose my journey into the field of education was a natural choice, but I can’t say I felt led into it. I just ended up there. Still, I loved teaching. I adored my students and found great joy in witnessing them master new skills and concepts. I look back on my years in the classroom with happy memories and little guilt, as I’m certain I taught my students in ways I want my own children to be taught – I used an uplifting, hands-on approach and tons of positive reinforcement. Yet, I know without a doubt that I wasn’t aware of the power I wielded when I was an educator. I simply didn’t realize my ability to change the course of a child’s day, or quite possibly, his life, with a look, a word, a touch.

If I could go back and do it all over again, I wouldn’t worry so much about whether my students could identify digraphs and dipthongs. Heck, I bet most people I know don’t have a clue what those words mean. Come to think of it, I’m not sure I remember the difference?!? No, I wouldn’t focus on the teaching of skills if I could revisit my former students.

I would focus on the training of hearts.

I would play more. I would giggle more. I would listen more. I would hug more.

I wouldn’t stop at vowing to say one positive thing about each child every day. I would find a dozen things, and say them a dozen times. I would notice when a student got a new outfit or a new haircut or a new pencil, because the things we find irrelevant have infinite meaning for a child. And I wouldn’t strive to let parents know whether their children had successfully mastered a list of skills; I would strive to let them know what I witnessed in their child’s character, because in the end, isn’t that what really matters?

My children are in an amazing school with incredible teachers. My kindergartner knows all about the planets and my third grader can tell me the difference between a digraph and a dipthong (and when he gets home, I’m going to ask him what it is because for the life of me I can’t remember!). But that’s not why I’m grateful for the teachers in my children’s lives. I’m grateful because my children have teachers who care about them long after they leave their classroom. I’m grateful because my children have teachers who pray for them, and for their school, on a daily basis. I’m grateful because my children have teachers who send bones home in a little baggie when they hear about our family’s new puppy. I’m grateful because my children have teachers who stand outside on a cold December morning to sing “Silent Night” to their students as they walk in from the carpool line.

Teachers are vital. They are imperative. They are invaluable, inestimable, incalculable. They are central, critical, crucial. Teachers are priceless, and I can only hope that if I ever enter a classroom as a teacher again, I will remember exactly what it means to stand in front of a group of children, and hold their hearts in my hands.

Oh Charlie, tomorrow you will turn nine. How can that be? I’m not old enough to have a nine-year-old child, am I? Did I miss something? You mean my twenties are already gone? But . . . where did they go? My thirties are half over? GASP.

Okay. It’s fine. I’m breathing again. I feel the air moving in and out of my lungs and that has to mean I’m breathing. I feel the kitchen chair beneath me. I hear the dishwasher making its wet assault behind me. I smell the puppy at my feet. I see your lacrosse cleats on the floor and your picture on the counter and I recall the warmth of your forehead against mine as we snuggled in your bed an hour ago and . . . I know it’s true. It really is just as I thought. Tomorrow, you will turn nine. Oh Charlie. How can that be?

I cannot recall a moment in my life when I didn’t want to be your mother. I remember every detail of the moment I discovered I was pregnant with you. I can picture the room I was in, the clothes I was wearing, the things surrounding me. It was the first time I ever fell to my knees to thank God. Tears streamed down my face. Tears of joy and anticipation and gratitude and an immediate love I didn’t even know was possible.

I had plans to meet your dad for dinner, so I pulled myself together and headed out the door with a newfound fear of being behind the wheel of an automobile. I was carrying a baby and suddenly, every act of living took on new meaning. I made a quick stop on my way to the restaurant for my first purchase as a pregnant woman. I bought a blue and white bib that said, “I love my Daddy,” all the while formulating plans in my mind about how to tell my husband we were going to be parents.

I made it through our dinner together without a word about my discovery – I couldn’t share such special news in a crowded restaurant. My hands shook and my stomach fluttered with nervous energy the entire meal, and every bite I took had a purpose never before understood. I was no longer eating salmon and spinach because I enjoyed it. I was eating it to nourish the child within.

Once home, I asked your daddy to sit outside with me on our back patio. I watched his expression transform from confusion to curiosity as I handed him the baby bib. When his eyes met mine, I answered his silent question with a simple nod.

Yes, our prayers have been answered. Yes, our dreams are coming true. Yes, we are going to have a baby.

Statistics claim 75% of women experience nausea during pregnancy. Leave it to me to stick with the majority. My first trimester involved a great deal of time spent on the couch, in a horizontal position, in my robe. It also involved some highly questionable food choices. Some days, all I could eat were Pringles. Other days, I could stomach only watermelon. There were days of chicken broth, vegetable soup, tomatoes, tater tots, saltines, and plain pasta. My doctor claimed my all day morning sickness would go away in my second trimester. It didn’t. He told me to continue eating whatever I could handle and not worry too much. I worried anyway.

When I wasn’t eating or worrying, I was reading. And by reading I actually mean I was devouring any and all information I could possibly find on pregnancy. I knew exactly when your fingernails began to grow in my womb. I knew how much weight you were supposed to be gaining each week of every month of all three trimesters. I also knew very early on that you were a boy. I didn’t tell a soul, but I was positive our first-born was going to be a son.

On the morning of our twenty-week ultrasound, I wore a blue shirt in honor of the baby boy I believed was growing inside of me. I lied on my back, gripping your daddy’s hand, wondering why no one had told me how much concern you can have for someone you’ve never even met. And when that nurse (her name was Mary) turned the computer screen towards me and I saw your precious profile in a grainy black and white image forever etched in my mind, I fell madly in love with everything about you. Instantly, I memorized the upturn of your nose and the fullness of your lips and the curve of your forehead. You were always my baby, but at that moment, you became my heart. You became my son. You became our Charlie.

We decorated your room, painting the walls just the right shade of blue. Your father spent hours refinishing a piece of furniture to use as your changing table. We attended childbirth classes and baby showers. I washed tiny pieces of clothing and hung them according to size in your closet. We put together all sorts of strange looking, brightly colored equipment guaranteed to carry, bounce, swing and soothe. We picked out birth announcements and visited pediatricians and scoured consumer reports for the safest car seats on the market. Your daddy put your crib together . . . twice. On his first attempt, he assembled it outside your room. Turns out cribs don’t fit through doors.

And then, on a cold night in the middle of February, my water broke and the pain came and we rushed to the hospital and the doctor said it was time and at the perfect moment . . . at the exact moment God planned for you to entire our lives . . . you arrived.

Oh Charlie. You came crashing into our world with the softest of cries and the chubbiest of arms and the sweetest, most mesmerizing face on the entire planet. And our existence instantly became an incredible journey we could never have imagined. The journey that takes a human heart and links it to another in a way that is so complete, so certain and true, it can only be described as a forever purpose of love.

It has been an amazing journey; one filled with all the things we expected; laughter, anticipation, learning, surprise, hope, joy, pride, fear, concern, disappointment, sorrow, prayer. But most of all, it has been a forever purpose of love. Loving our child with everything we have and with all that we are. Loving him in every moment, in every circumstance, in the very best ways we know how.

Oh Charlie. I love you so much. I will love you forever. I will love you no matter what. And I’m glad you’re turning nine tomorrow. Because that means I have had three-thousand two-hundred and eighty-five days with the most wonderful boy I’ve ever known.

I pray for thousands more.

Eighteen pairs of eyes focused on her and I could see the instant flush in her cheeks. She walked forward and took her seat in the single chair at the front of the room, her chosen book in hand. She looked terrified. Well, she also looked totally and completely adorable, but as her mother, I could definitely tell she was anxious about the experience ahead. Her legs swung back and forth in constant motion as the nervous energy released itself. I smiled and nodded my head in her direction, attempting to convey my parental encouragement without the use of words.

She started a bit fast and a little quiet, but after a page or two, she settled in. Her pace slowed and her voiced strengthened. She wasn’t as expressive as she would have been in her room at home, without an audience of five year olds surrounding her, but she sounded good . . . solid. She sounded like the fluent reader she was.

Secure in my daughter’s strong start, I pulled out my phone and began recording, a huge grin permanently stretched across my face as I tried to hold the phone steady. I hadn’t realized my hands were shaking, my own anxiety forcing its way through the confidence I’d tried so hard to emit on our drive over.

Truthfully, I didn’t think she’d do it, and hey, I had my reasons. Reason number one: I've listened to my daughter belt out songs at the top of her lungs for weeks around our house and then stand on stage for her school Christmas program like a deer . . . ahem, a reindeer . . . in headlights. Reason number two: Libby once spent several days with the varsity cheerleaders at her school preparing to participate in the homecoming pep rally along with most of the other girls in her kindergarten class. On the day of the pep rally, however, our little cheerleader turned into a chicken, and those pom poms of hers never did make it out on that gym floor. Reason number three: My daughter's teacher asked Libby to read aloud to her for months before she finally agreed to do it, and when she did agree, she chose a book with four words in it.

Sure, my little girl can talk a big game. She's always been very good at making plans. What she's not always so good at, is following through with her plans, especially if they involve getting up in front of an audience. So when Libby told me she wanted to accept an invitation to read to the students now inhabiting her former preschool classroom, forgive me if I was skeptical. VERY skeptical.

I stalled on getting the visit scheduled. I told her we should wait until after Thanksgiving. Then I told her we should wait until after Christmas. Then, low and behold, there was an email in my inbox in early January from Libby’s former teachers. They wanted to set a date and I was out of reasons to stall.

My daughter was thrilled when I told her the plans were made and she was going to read in her old classroom on a Friday morning near the end of the month. She knew exactly what book she would take: "Amelia Bedelia and the Baby." Never mind that the humor would likely be over the heads of the audience. Never mind that the book was part of a collection and therefore quite heavy. Never mind that the illustrations were much too small to see from a distance. Never mind that the story was a lengthy one. My daughter loved "Amelia Bedelia and the Baby" and she knew she could read it well. And she did read it well. Very well, in fact.

Right up to the point where she got stuck.

It was the longest word in the story. It was a word rarely spoken and a word I've never seen in another book. It was a word I likely “edited” when I read this particular book to Libby in the past, as it wasn’t a word I cared to hear my child repeat. It was the word ‘tarnation.’ Seriously, who says that word? You drop a jar on your foot and you yell ‘TARNATION!’ Yea, I didn’t think so. Maybe your great grandmother used that word down in south Georgia a century ago, but today, it's not a common expletive, at least not in these parts.

Yet . . . Amelia Bedelia uses the word ‘tarnation.’ And now, my daughter was sitting in front of eighteen people, trying desperately to determine what to do because she had come to a word in the book she was reading aloud that she didn’t know or wasn’t sure she should say.

As mothers, we’ve all had those moments. You know, the ones where you feel as if someone is actually reaching into your chest, grabbing hold of your heart, and twisting it as tightly as they possibly can. Well, this was one of those moments. I was twenty feet away from my daughter as I watched her face contort in confusion. I saw the look of panic in her eyes and the quiver of her lip as helplessness began to consume her. The alarm sounded inside my head and I felt hot beads of sweat begin to form as every ounce of blood in my body rushed to the surface of my skin. I could see flashing red lights around me, all of them screaming the same dire message.

RESCUE! RESCUE! RESCUE your daughter!

I opened my mouth but no words came.

What should I do? What can I say? How do I help her?

I'm sure no more than two or three seconds passed as this event played out that Friday morning in Libby’s old preschool class. My daughter stumbled, just for a moment, and struggled to get back on her feet, something she does on a daily basis . . . something we all do on a daily basis. And yet, the familiar rush of emotions that overtook my being as I witnessed it was torturous. It was physically painful to watch my child sitting on the brink of failure with a crowd observing.

I didn’t rescue Libby. The teacher, who was sitting just a few feet away, jumped to action and helped my daughter with the word she didn’t know how to say. I was already a big fan of that teacher. Now, she’s one of my heroes.

The rest of the read aloud went perfectly. Libby recovered quickly and went on to finish the book as if she’d been reading to a classroom full of students for years. She was so proud of herself as she skipped down the hall and back to our car just minutes later, and I felt so grateful to be her mother. Still, I will forever remember that moment when my heart twisted inside my chest while watching my daughter flounder to get out of a situation she didn't want to be in. I’ll never forget the overwhelming intensity of emotions in my soul as I observed my child hanging on for dear life.

Oh, I'm certain I’ll have those feelings again. As the mother of two children, my heart will likely be caught in that vice grip of concern many, many times in the years ahead, and I imagine it will never get any less difficult to witness my children in the throes of their discomfort. In all honesty, as much as it hurts, I want my children to have some challenging experiences in their lives. They need to know what it's like to suffer embarrassment and heartache and helplessness, or else how will they learn to empathize with others? How will they learn to ask for help? How will they learn to trust in the only one who will always be there when they need Him?

I suppose, as a parent, all I can do is hope and pray that there will always be loving and supportive people nearby when my children are in need of being recued - teachers, friends, family members. And one day, when my heart has been thoroughly ripped to shreds after all the worry and hope and pleading with God to protect my children from all that can trip them up in life, I will have to smile, step back, and let my children rescue themselves.

I was upstairs doing my thing. Chickening, as my husband calls it. A rather odd verb, but one that has become a staple in our home as it is the term Adam uses to describe my method of homemaking accomplishment. I often race around the house like a chicken with my head cut off, darting from room to room doing all those things that need to be done in the daily life of a wife and mother. I realize the chicken without a head visual is slightly disturbing, but it’s also quite accurate. My friends call me efficient . . . productive. My husband calls me a chicken.

So I was upstairs chickening that Saturday morning, working away to the loud laughter coming from the basement where Adam was playing with our children. I’m sure you think my husband had the better end of the deal, but I was perfectly content to be dusting furniture and mopping floors. Cleaning makes me happy, and getting the house clean in the morning so I can enjoy it all day . . . well, that’s pure joy for those with a touch of OCD, like myself. There was a huge smile on my face that day as I rushed around heavily armed with cleaning products and washcloths.

Then I heard the scream, and all motion ceased.

I knew that kind of scream. It wasn’t a simple bump or bruise kind of scream. It was a something really bad kind of scream. A something is broken or bloody kind of scream. A something requiring more than a quick hug and a “you’ll be okay” kind of scream.

God really does have impeccable timing.

Just a few days earlier, Charlie had offered a rare piece of information from the school day during dinner.

“Addie* is on a diet.”

My stomach took a dive and I froze; my mouth opening in repute yet falling mute as the words stuck in my throat. My son had uttered such a simple sentence, yet it conjured decades of understanding and an immediate desire to stop the madness.

Only a parent can understand the amount of love behind the lecture that followed my son’s innocent remark. The love so full, so sure, so complete it overlooks any and all conditions. And it was a solid lecture, my friends. After my initial moments of shock induced silence, I rallied in a big way; offering up all those key phrases any other mother would use to convey the basic lessons of inner beauty.

Everyone is unique.
It’s what on the inside that counts.
It’s important to be healthy and active, not thin, and you should fuel your body with good food and plenty of exercise.
You are wonderfully and fearfully made by a God who loves you no matter what.
We love you no matter what.
AND SHE’S ONLY EIGHT YEARS OLD FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE SO WHY IN THE WORLD IS SHE ON A DIET???!!!That last piece of insight came out a bit louder than the rest, I’m afraid.

You see, one of my biggest goals as a parent is to avoid exposing my children to the insanity of the world when it comes to appearance and, especially, weight. I have never used the word “diet” in front of my children. Instead, I have tried to model positive behaviors, to set a good example. I eat healthy foods and exercise six days a week, often in front of my children. I rarely offer anything except water to drink. I make sure my kids have plenty of fruit and force them to eat vegetables. I frequently tell them which foods contain specific vitamins and minerals, and why such vitamins and minerals are important. I explain the necessity of fiber and protein. My children can name the superfoods.

I don’t own a scale. I turn off the Christian radio station when the commercials come on because half of them are about weight loss and laser hair removal. I frequently leave the house without makeup. My hair doesn’t spend much time with a dryer or straight iron – it hangs out with rubberbands instead. I don’t own designer clothes, I can’t recall ever spending more than a hundred bucks on a pair of shoes, and my shampoo and conditioner costs less than three dollars each.

Yes, I use anti-wrinkle cream every single night. Yes, I pay for my hair to look like I just spent a week at the beach. Yes, I require my son to wear khaki pants and collared shirts to a church where many people don’t and my daughter likely believes chocolate is a daily necessity, but in general, I think I’m doing what I can to make sure my children aren’t aware of the billion-dollar business often referred to as the beauty industry.

Despite my best efforts, however, it’s obvious the ignorance I crave for my children concerning beauty and weight doesn’t exist. They are aware. I can remind my kids every day that the perfect Creator made them just how they’re supposed to be, but at the ages of eight and six, Charlie and Libby have discovered that in our society, there is an importance placed on beauty that has absolutely nothing to do with God. And when my husband came upstairs holding a towel underneath our daughter’s nose after “the scream,” my own awareness of the importance of beauty took over and all my good intentions as a mother flew right out the window. Me, with a size nearly A bra that is still a tad too big despite having a husband willing to pay top dollar to change that fact became a walking billboard for plastic surgery the moment said husband pulled the towel away from our daughter’s face and I saw her precious little nose pushed slightly to one side.

I called the pediatrician first, but only to mask the vanity consuming me. I knew she would tell me to head to the emergency room and that’s where I wanted to go. I didn’t want to waste even a moment of time if there was a possibility it could affect the outcome of my daughter’s facial structure. I mean really, who cares if she is an honest, giving, responsible, caring, thoughtful human being? I just need her nose to be straight.

Turns out the doctors in emergency rooms don’t handle broken noses the way movies portray doctors handling broken noses. There is no quick jerk of the physician’s hand to set the nose back into proper position. The doctor touches the nose, looks up the nose, asks questions about the nose. Then he tells you to wait a week or so until the swelling goes down and see an ear, nose, and throat guy if your daughter is snoring like an eighty year old man or her nose still appears to be slightly off-center.

Libby’s nose wasn’t broken. It just swelled more on one side after her head-to-head collision with Charlie while they were both trying to dive for the same football. Hey, you gotta love a girl who is willing to bleed for a great catch. I doubt my daughter will be wearing a helmet the next time she plays football in the basement, although the doctor in the ER did suggest it, so I’m not sure what the lesson in the whole experience was for her. I do know, however, what the lesson was for me.

I learned that for all my efforts, I will never be able to convince my children, or myself for that matter, that the way they look doesn’t matter. Of course, I wouldn’t love my daughter less if her nose was crooked for the rest of her life. But the truth is, my nose is crooked and it does make me love myself a little less.

Every day, when I look in the mirror, I see things I would like to change about my appearance. Not one thing. Things . . . plural.

I don’t want my kids to do that. I don’t want Libby to wish for wavier hair, longer eyelashes, smoother skin. But she will. And maybe that’s how God teaches her humility. I don’t want Charlie to wish his peers would stop making fun of his buck teeth. But he will. And maybe that’s how God teaches him empathy.

I want my children to believe God created them perfectly because He makes no mistakes. I want them to understand that desiring to look different is just a way of saying God doesn’t provide. I want them to realize their worth comes from who they are, which comes from who He is, which will always be more than enough. And as much as I want those things for my children, I want them for myself. Because as of today, when I look in the mirror, I still see all the things I'd like to change about my appearance. I still see a crooked nose.