What would Future Amy do?

I've been thinking a lot about the future lately. It's been an evolution of sorts, actually, which started back in the "What would Jesus do?" era. Those were tough times because I'm pretty sure that Jesus wouldn't approve of my diabolical scheme to wait until the month after expiration to inspect my truck so that, after a premeditated twelve-year-cycle, I will have saved one full year of inspection fees. To reduce the marital squabbling in my home, I eventually revised the "WWJD" to "What would Brad Mosiman do?" but that was a belly-buster too. Would Brad Mosiman risk possible deportation by stealing a serving utensil from a moderately-priced Mexican resort for the pure pleasure of saying, "Would you please pass the Cancun spoon?" at dinner parties?  So I began to think, "What would Amy-of-the-future want me to do?"

Future Amy is a wise and wonderful woman. Consulting and considering her desires has changed the way I live my life. Sure, Brad has been working toward the future for years as he steals money from Present Amy for retirement but my system is less about monetary reward and more about becoming a better person. I stumbled onto my system a few years ago when I would alter a school lesson as I was implementing it. Wanting to jazz up a reading comprehension passage on the already-exciting Mars Rover, I unearthed blueprints on how to design a space vehicle out of candy. Not surprisingly, it was a big hit and I didn't want to forget it for next year so I jotted myself a note in the teacher's manual. "Dear Future Amy, you sure are a pretty little thing! Remember the candy Mars Rover unless you actually enjoy squeegeeing the drool of bored schoolchildren off their desks." What a delight to encounter that note a year later!

It is important to bear in mind that, in addition to living years and decades ahead, Future Amy exists right around the corner. Yesterday, my daughter Savannah had to attend a mandatory volunteer (Note to future readers: look up the definition of "oxymoron.") expo at her college so I went with her to keep her company with the intent of visiting our friend, Sarah afterwards. Long story short (you're welcome), we were done before noon, Sarah was busy until 4 and despite our hankering for movie popcorn and Raisinettes, we decided to forego movies and drove home. "We could stop at Wegman's," I said sleepily as we approached Geneseo. Neither one of us felt like leaving our warm and cozy car to brave a wind-blasted parking lot to enter a crowded store. We wanted to get home to warm blankets, fluffy pillows and snuggly dogs. But for the benefit of my daughter, I pulled myself together. Someone had to be the ADULT here. "Think about Future Amy and Future Savannah," I told my daughter as she gripped the steering wheel, intent on the road leading home. "Think beyond this moment, Savannah. This isn't about you. Think about their needs. How are they going to feel with no yummy snacks...no pudding...no ice cream? I know you're tired, Savannah, but think about them." With a sigh, Savannah selflessly flipped on her turn signal and we bravely trekked into the store.

Forty-five minutes later, tucked in on the couch, Future Amy and Future Savannah were happily eating slightly-warmed pecan sticky buns with frothy glasses of milk. That evening, the two were as pleased as punch as they scooped out bowls of Ben & Jerry's Phish Food.  Holding up her Cancun spoon filled with fudge-y fish, Present Amy toasted the sacrificial commitment of Amy-and-Savannah-of-the-past. "In the prophetic words of Mahatma Ghandi," Present Amy said, ignoring Present Savannah as she rolled her eyes, "The future depends on what you do today."  "Well, make a note to Future Amy," Savannah said, glaring at her dessert cup, "to NOT buy generic pudding next time."

I was mugged

Occasionally, I will share a valuable lesson that I have learned from life experience with my students. They are always eager to listen. Oh good, they say quietly to one another, a break from math! Quick, look engaged and interested. We might be able to milk at least ten minutes out of this! We had finished a chapter of Gary Paulsen's Mr. Tucket where the main character escapes from the brutal clutches of a Pawnee tribe and is less than thrilled about visiting a Sioux village. I took this opportunity to explain that it is important not to condemn an entire group of people for the irresponsible actions of a few. I reiterated that concept by sharing an incident that happened to me in childhood.

"Not the cotton candy story," Savannah groaned. "You've told that story every other month since I was born."

"That's a great story!" I said defensively, "and applicable to so many situations."

"It is a great story," Brad said carefully, ignoring Savannah's blatant eye-rolling. "But some of it does seems...a  little dramatic. Perhaps you've embellished it a bit over time? We love it when you do that...it's cute," he added quickly.

Furious that I had to seek validation, I called upon my mother as an expert, first-hand witness of what may have been the single-most traumatic event of my life.

"Many years ago," I began, addressing my audience of enthralled 4th graders, "Mrs. Mosiman's family ventured into the city to see The Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Circus. It was a delightful, magical time. As we left, my parents bought me cotton candy. Not that bagged fluff that you get at the store. This was a magnificently colored confectionary concoction balanced on a sturdy stick."

"So far, so good," my mother nodded as I re-told the story at her kitchen table this evening over a poorly-executed game of euchre. I was just too upset to concentrate.

"During the long walk down darkened alleyways to return to our car..." I transitioned.

"We went in the afternoon and were parked a block away," my mother gently corrected.

"I'm setting the tone, Mother," I explained before continuing. "I was a horrible child," I said, glancing at my mother for another quick correction but she seemed overly occupied with her cards so I went on, "I didn't listen to my parents' warning to stay with the group and soon fell behind as I nibbled my sticky snack. Before I knew it, my family was out of sight."

"We could always see you, Amy," my mother said. Apparently, she had finished arranging her cards.

"Suddenly a gang of thugs approached and surrounded me," I shared, my voice quivering with the memory of it.

"There were, maybe, three boys, at most," Mom remembered, leading an ace.

I glared at her and then at my-devoid-of-anything-resembling-trump hand. "They were in their teens, as tall as trees, and mean...mad-dog-mean."

"They were, tops, ten-years-old," whispered my mother.

"Watch out," Brad warned, "she's quoting from The Outlaw Josey Wales."

I sighed in frustration but then rebounded, remembering my mother owned an AARP card which was clear evidence that her memory was clearly not as sharp as mine. The fact that she'd effortlessly beat me in two back-to-back games of euchre didn't cause me any concern at all.

"These ruthless villains seized my cotton candy, ripping it out of my innocent little hands, leaving me, shocked and snack-less, on the sidewalk. After a moment's silence, I let out a howl that filled the darkness..."

"...of the afternoon," my mother concluded before deciding to go alone on her current hand.

"See!" I crowed, "I was mugged!" I frowned as my father added four points to his and my mother's existing score but nonetheless lifted my hands up victoriously. Mother, father, husband and daughter all regarded me doubtfully. Sure, some of the smaller details of my tale were a little rough but the meat of the story was raw truth. Certainly my family could now see that?

My students sat in stunned silence as I finished this account from my youth. I could feel waves of empathy emanating from their sincere little hearts. We had made an important text-to-life connection as they regarded the parallels between Mr. Tucket and Mrs. Mosiman. As Mr. Tucket had to understand that he couldn't blame all Native Americans for the actions of one cruel Pawnee warrior, so too, should Mrs. Mosiman NOT expect all city people to, without warning, steal her cotton candy.

"We've learned an important lesson today, children," I said as they all nodded in agreement, some of them glancing inexplicably at the clock with satisfaction. "Does anyone want to share what they've learned?

One small hand was raised in the air. "Yes," I prompted, smiling.

"Maybe next time, you should hold onto your cotton candy tighter," my young scholar advised.

"Maybe next time, you should stick a little closer to the truth," my mother advised.

"Maybe next time, I'll keep my valuable life experiences to myself and they won't be able to benefit anyone," I pouted.

"Hey! Maybe someone finally did learn something from this story," Savannah said happily.

Advice for when you almost accidentally drop acid...

During a recent after-school euchre game (upon which my partner, Amanda and I PUMMELED our opponents), we were discussing our lifelong abstainment from stuporizing substances. "Although I have a long litany of stupid things that I have done over the years," I said, accidentally trumping my partner's Ace, "I can honestly say, with the exception of a tooth extraction gone horribly wrong, that I've never done drugs." Glancing at the King of Spades and an accompanying ten in my hand, I ordered the dealer to pick up a black bauer and nodded confidently at Amanda, "Well, there was that one time when I almost dropped acid." "What??!!??" Everyone lowered their cards and looked at me as I transported our little crew back in time twenty years.

I was seven months pregnant...

"This just went from bad to worse," groaned Geri, shifted her called-up bauer next to the left bauer.

I was at a Grateful Dead concert, wearing a cute, bright yellow shorts jumper with no pockets and waiting in the world's longest long for the porta-potties. By the way, I believe that legislation should be introduced to allow pregnant woman first-access rights to bathrooms.

"Wait," Kelly interrupted, admiring her hand full of Aces, "you told me last year, when you shoved me out of the way in the faculty restroom, that woman with weak bladders from having babies should have first-access rights." I blinked at her, confused. "Yeah...?"

Anyhoo, as I was waiting for an insufferable amount of time beneath that blazing Erie, Pennsylvania sun, I watched a disheveled young man wearing a serape walking alongside the line with several papers. He must be petitioning for a change in governmental policy, I thought, shifting uncomfortably from foot-to-foot. Many people were eager to fund his cause as I saw several offer him a dollar or two. As he drew nearby, I saw my mistake and realized he was actually a starving artist. The papers he was carrying were filled with tiny cartoon characters. How delightful. I saw Disney figures, a colorful unicorn, and leprechauns. Seeing my interest, he went to hand me a sheet so that I could inspect his talented work up close. At that moment, my keen pregnant radar went off, alerting me to imminent danger and I glanced around. There, in the distance, I saw my husband, going full-board OJ Simpson (the early years) from the Hertz commercials, leaping over flaming grills, sliding across car hoods, dodging vendors carrying helium-filled balloons ("They weren't filled with helium, Amy," sighed my exasperated husband later) to throw himself between me and my startled entrepreneur. Brad grabbed my arm and, despite my loud protests, pulled me from the line. Several factors were obviously in play here, in the protection of me and my, as-of-yet, drug-free fetus. First of all, my husband had strategically dressed me like a fluorescent canary so that he could keep tabs on me from a distance. Secondly, my adorable outfit's lack of pockets would have prevented me (if I had, in fact, felt compelled to make a purchase...which I wouldn't have because I am far too street-smart for that!) from acquiring a dangerously illegal acid-laden cartoon. Either way, I learned a valuable lesson. Never trust a guy in a serape peddling papers in a porta-potty line. I also developed a life-long habit of dressing my children in day-glo colors which turned out to have multiple benefits. Not only did it keep them off the drugs, it also heightened the odds of them being selected from a crowd of hundreds to kiss the whale at Marineland.

"I learned a lesson from this as well," my partner said, watching sadly but with a marked lack of surprise as we were euchred. "What did you learn," I asked, clearing the cards, glad that my story may have positively impacted her impressionable life. "I learned I need a new partner for euchre. What did you call that up on! A King and a ten! Are you on drugs right now?"

"Leaf" me alone!

There's nothing better than bumping through a tall, grassy field with a decrepit, old truck to get your "country" on.  I will not wax on about the wonders of leaf raking in the fall. My husband is the only one in the household who revels in raking. Today, when the girls and I returned from an errand, we moaned collectively as we spotted the giant colorful piles dotting our lawn. While Brad continued raking like a maniac, my daughters and I brainstormed multiple ways to make the leaf transporting process easy and efficient. We managed to waste about twenty minutes over that particular debate. We spent another ten minutes admiring the dogs as they frolicked in the piles. After five truckloads, we realized we needed a break so we headed into the house for a little snack and a quick snooze.

An hour later, our set alarm went off and Syd headed off to work. Savannah conveniently slept through the alarm but I managed to stagger back out to the yard, collapsing into a chair to provide moral support to Brad as he precariously balanced himself forty feet above the ground on tip-toe, stretched out to clean our clogged gutters. I watched a woolley-bear caterpillar crawl across the driveway before drifting into dreamland for another few minutes. I was pleased to see, upon wakening, that my husband was still alive. He required my expert help momentarily to hold up a bucket in which to dump gutter sludge. I winced as the some of the stinky stuff splashed me but selflessly bit back a complaint as I observed that Brad's arms, up to his shoulders, were coated in slime.

With a wary eye to the horizon, Brad re-focused his efforts on emptying his lawn of leaves. The dachshund and I were assigned to truck duty, Brad valiantly trying not to be exasperated as I am incapable of being directed with obscure hand signals. "Me waving my hand towards my shoulder means keep going and my hand held with the palm facing you means stop," he explained several times after sighing dramatically as the sky continued to darken. He rode with me for a couple trips across the field but suddenly shifted tactics by choosing to run from the pile directly to the dumping area, meeting the truck to offer me useless hand signals (I offered him a few in return) before leaping energetically into the back to remove the leaves before I had even exited the cab. Then he would run back to the house before I had even turned the key in the ignition. "You were going so slow," Brad explained later, "we would have been doing leaves until midnight."

Finally, as the sun slipped past the horizon, the last leaf was lassoed. Savannah tried to steal some of my thunder by arriving for the last two loads but I'm pretty sure that Brad gave me the due-credit that reflected my efforts. Oh no! I may have really screwed up this time. He might actually expect this level of uncomplaining, tireless and focused assistance next year!

A visit from the Bedtime Fairy

Buying presents for going-on-adult children can be a drag as practicality rears its unsentimental head. As Savannah's 20th birthday approached, Brad and I found ourselves reacting to some of her relatively small, college-related expenditures. "Want us to buy this textbook for your birthday," I asked Savannah as we stood in line at the RIT Barnes & Noble. A day or so later, Brad walked into the house with a backpack designed to both carry her books and shield her laptop. So now what? Meal-wise, Savannah was covered. Her father made her a wonderful fried fish dinner with creme brulee for dessert. Birthday cards flooded the mailbox. But the hoopla of present-opening was a little lackluster. Sydney rallied a bit with her thoughtful offering of water-purification tablets for when Savannah decided to embark on a great wilderness adventure. Even though I knew my daughter appreciated the practical gifts that reduced the burden on her own finances, I longed for the childhood excitement that accompanied a pile of brightly-wrapped birthday presents.

Shockingly, I was a selfish snot when I was little. I distinctly remember thinking, after observing the living-room wreckage of ribbons and paper and bows, "Is that it?" I know...I am so ashamed. However, that ridiculous mindset heavily influenced me as a mother. Hence, the invention of the Bedtime Fairy. I always held a present back at Christmas and for birthdays to tuck under my daughters' pillows to add a little bit of magic to the end of the day. Occasionally, the Bedtime Fairy would simply arrive on random evenings, just to keep things interesting. "We hear the wings of the Bedtime Fairy," we'd sing out, listening as pajama-ed feet would scamper to their room.  It wasn't until they'd hit double-digits that the true magic of the Bedtime Fairy was revealed when presents started arriving under my own pillow. Unlike me, my daughters are appreciative, generous, selfless human beings.

The Bedtime Fairy was the only remnant of Savannah's birthday that I had left as she exited her teen years. I wish you could have seen her face when she lifted her pillow to see the Swedish Fish that "The Bedtime Fairy" had left her. An hour later, I fumbled upon some birthday scratch-off lottery tickets that I bought earlier in the week. I tip-toed into Savannah's room and gently shook her awake, waving the tickets in front of her. "Savannah...look! Scratchers!" I whispered. "What," she mumbled blurrily as I thrust the scratchers into her hand. "Don't ya want to see if you won," I asked, confused as she rolled over and pulled the blankets up to hide her face. I slipped out of her bedroom quietly, realizing that a bit of the old magic still existed. And the Bedtime Fairy came through in the end:  Savannah won two bucks!

The depreciated value of forty-three-year-old feet

It's been a while since I've tormented you with yet another photograph of my forty-three-year-old foot but I'm afraid that, circumstances being what they are, it is time for it to make another appearance. Isn't it interesting that some things increase in value as time passes while others depreciate? A 1970 convertible Dodge Challenger with 8 cylinders can be worth up to $400,000. And even though my forty-three-year-old feet cannot even begin to compare, mileage-wise, I don't believe that the going-rate on my piggies would even come close.

Hindered by the great Kickball Incident of May '13, I have been unable to wear heels for over four months. Limited to my diminutive height of 5'10'', my self-esteem plummeted. Occasionally I would consider testing out the tall-girl shoes but reality would strike as I still needed four fourth graders to heave me up off the reading rug. Sitting criss-cross-apple-sauce was a far-fetched fantasy. Getting in and out of Savannah's low-riding Honda Accent required several deep breaths, an employed regiment of rocking back-and-forth and then a fearless lunge that could result with me in a collapsed heap on my lawn. But finally, I'd had enough.

I decided to start conservatively with a pair of low, 2-inch black heels with some slender strap supports and a jaunty flower for luck. My first few steps were reminiscent of Bambi's feeble flounderings on the ice but I was soon striding along confidently. My knee didn't fold in like a cheap umbrella although, by mid-day, I began to feel some discomfort in my feet. I was determined to see this through so I soldiered on until school ended at 3:10. Victorious, I slid the shoes off and was pleased by a minimal amount of gushing blood and looked, with awe, upon the dime-sized blister that was protruding from the side of my baby toe.

Every scar has a story to tell but for some reason, no one wanted to listen to mine. With an agility that I didn't know still existed, I tossed my naked foot into the middle of my afternoon euchre game. "Gross," observed my friend, Kelly, as she dealt herself yet another bauer. Amanda sighed, realizing my attention was not focused on the game as she glanced at our losing score and Geri sympathetically snapped, "Get your nasty foot off my table." My family reacted in a similar fashion. "Touch it," I invited, "It feels like a warm gummy bear." Sydney begrudgingly obliged because she didn't want to hurt my feelings but I had to chase Savannah around the house and, even then, couldn't catch her. I kept Brad at bay because he kept threatening me with a needle.

I decided to address the growth on the side of my baby toe after a photo-taking session. We had to try three different rooms before we found the perfect lighting to accentuate the size and texture of my blister. Bear in mind...we're not professionals.  Savannah caught the proper tone of the blister but unfortunately, also captured my fat, flabby foot. Please remember that it can be quite a challenge to keep forty-three-year-old feet fit.

A lesson in political correctness on a field trip

It couldn't have been a better day for a 4th grade field trip to the historic 17th century Seneca community of Ganondagan. The fall foliage was magnificent. The children only asked, "Are we there yet?" approximately a thousand times during the hour or so drive. And even though my Twinkie was smushed beyond recognition, it was still edible. After having been immersed studying an in-depth unit focusing on the Iroquois Confederacy, the 4th grade was going to be able to tour a full-size replica of a longhouse. We'd studied the Great Law of Peace, memorized the six tribes that made up the Confederacy, and could discuss, in length, the biography of Dekanawida and his influence upon the nations. But as the bus pulled up to the site, I realized that I hadn't stressed the importance of one particular lesson. "Look!" an excited 4th grader squealed, pointing at a large car decal, "The Indian wampum belt!" I cringed and did a quick three-minute informational talk about political correctness and respect. "I will NOT hear the word "Indian" used during this trip," I threatened, "You will use the correct terminology to reflect your proper up-bringing, good manners, and intelligence." With that, we stepped off the bus and stepped back into time.

Things were going so well! We listened attentively. We asked thought-provoking questions. We were inquisitive and interested. And then it happened. Our tour guide, whom I am sure meant well, challenged the kids to brainstorm different types of corn. "Oh no," I moaned, turning away from the slow-motion car wreck occurring before my very eyes down the alleyway of that 17th century longhouse.

"Sweet corn...,"

"No! No. no. no, no, no, no," I begged, hugging the imitation Elm bark molding as I stood in the threshold of the Seneca lodgment.

"...cow corn...,"

"Oh...here it comes..." I agonized, searching my mind for an alternative name for the festively-colored corn that decorates the doorways of countless homes throughout the country.

".............................................," the uncertain pause lasted for what felt like an eternity as forty 4th graders were also wildly searching for a synonym. Harvest corn? Decorative corn? Native American corn? There was nothing we could do...the die was cast. We moved on from that horrific moment as bigger and better people. We valiantly attempted to rise above and even though we sunk like sad little stones, we went down fighting. I was so proud that they conscientiously tried to demonstrate cultural respect even under challenging circumstances. As the bus returned to the school, one of my 4th grade boys sidled up to me and with a knowing grin said, "What a great day! We didn't have to learn a thing!" I gave him a playful nudge and smiled back, knowing that he had actually learned a lot more today on our field trip than he would have in the classroom. It was a great day.