Epic lip-sync showdown: 2015

Contrary to popular belief, I am not an attention-guzzling glory hound.

Okay...I'll wait for you to stop laughing...

Still waiting...

Now that we can speak seriously together...allow me to say that, knowing that the 4th grade "Grit" movie was going to be on debut at the end-of-year school holiday assembly, I quickly dispelled the notion that the 4th grade team would also enter the big Lip-Sync Competition. "It's too much," I said, shaking my head, "This is a time for ALL of God's little teachers to shine."

Enter Mr. King (Cue dark, foreboding music.). Remember that annoying little terrier from Looney Tunes who dances incessantly around the patient and long-suffering bulldog in the red sweater? That's Mr. King. "Hey...ya gonna enter the contest, Mrs. Mosiman...are ya? Are ya? Are ya? Are ya gonna enter...are ya? Are ya?"  Finally...just to shut him up...I relented. All in the spirit of fun and good will, mind you. Not to cuff him metaphorically into a brick wall or anything.

I assembled a team of the most creative and coordinated people in my corridor and dragged them, kicking and screaming into my classroom for what would be the first of a series of thousands of practice sessions. These jam sessions would last late into the wee hours of the afternoon and the team would come to the brink of breaking up over dance-move debates, clashes over costumes and the classic "glitter-or-no-glitter" argument that ended up busting up the Beatles. But not us...we held strong. However, rumors reached us that the 3rd grade team could not withstand the pressure. Mr. King would be performing...alone. I stoically held back hysterical bouts of laughter as the karma train made a stop at Mr. King's door.  Toot! toot!

I was almost sad as he took the stage as a solo act. Almost. He donned a wig (What a loser) and

Unlike Mr. King's wig, my hair piece was an instrumental
part of our act.

began to sing "Hello." What an uninspired choice. And then...suddenly... movement in the audience grabbed our attention as the ladies of the 3rd grade team left their seats to join their crooning colleague for a spirited Christmas mash-up. It had all been a ruse! A diabolical plot to lull us into a complacent competitive coma!

I admit it threw us a bit. But in a flurry of feathered boas, we took the stage. Possessed by the spirit of Christmas, we bounced, bopped, shimmied, shook, jitter-bugged and jazz-handed our way all over the place, leaving the audience feeling light-headed and confused. What just happened? I'll tell you what happened...4th grade team & friends just dropped the mic on you.

Amy OUT!

"Paws-ing" to celebrate in Room 24

 Ahhh...the classroom Christmas party. A reverent silence descends over each desk as the students reflect upon their many blessings. Revelers walk sedately across the room like graceful swans to carefully throw away wrappers, ribbons, and bows. "How I value and appreciate this noisy holiday trinket purchased with loving care from the Dollar Store," one grateful child said, "I think I shall store it away in my backpack for later use so as not to interrupt the festivities." Other children immediately followed this fine example.

I awoke with a start from my Pepsi-induced coma. Four boys were doing the worm across the middle of the room while the rest of the class was engaged in a wrapping paper war. Decibel levels rose to dangerous heights as I dimmed the lights and attempted to distract my darlings with a calming movie:  Nester: The Long-Eared Christmas Donkey.

"Oh no," my family groaned, "That's the worst movie ever."

 "Why would you do that to your students," my husband asked.

"They were out of control," Sydney answered, "Obviously Mom is punishing them!"

Don't listen to my family...Nester is a beautiful cartoon with a sweet message of acceptance and how everyone has something special to offer as a gift. It also serves as a reliable vocabulary lesson. The children watched attentively for several minutes. "Wait," one kid said, suddenly sitting straight up, "What did that chubby angel call herself." "Cherub...that's what Mrs. Mosiman always calls us." They all turned to look at me. "What does cherub mean," another child asked. "It means fat," his friend answered. "No, it means angel," I smiled. Ohhhh...lightbulbs appeared over every head like little stars of Bethlehem. "What did you think it meant," I wondered. "Something bad," they said. Every year...it takes them until December to discover the meaning of "cherub." Happily, it takes much less time for them to figure out the true meaning of Christmas as this year we decided to forego a customary student gift exchange and instead purchase presents for pets! Thanks to my friend, Darlene, we obtained a wish list from our local dog shelter and my little elves went to town! Cleaning supplies, homemade blankets, food, toys and treats arrived by the giftbag-full! The kids were so excited to unwrap, sort and stack our inventory! This year...no one was jealous, or disappointed, or greedy.  This year, everyone was generous and giving and kind. (And loud.)

This year, instead of the light streaming into Room 24...we re-directed it so that it shone outward.

"Like the Bat Signal, Mrs. Mosiman?"

Okay...so maybe they haven't COMPLETELY grasped the true meaning of Christmas yet but Holy Hallelujah Choir, we're getting there!

Gimme five! (sweaters)

As the worst gift-giver on the face of the planet, I thought that I had finally stumbled onto a festive formula for the perfect present. "Look at that," Brad said with some disgust, pointing over to a store rack filled with seasonal sweaters. Following his finger, I squealed with delight and rushed over for a closer look. "They're adorable!" To Brad's horror, I immediately purchased five identical Christmas sweaters in an assortment of sizes. I unveiled them at my grade level team meeting the following day. My team was, naturally, speechless, about my themed gift. "And we can all wear them on the SAME day," I explained as they stared at me, in transfixed wonder.

Monday dawned, bright and beautiful. "Today's the day," I shouted, bounding out of bed, thoughtfully texting my team a reminder to wear their sweaters today. I spotted Geri first...NOT wearing her Christmas sweater. "Don't get all ruffled," she snarled, digging through her closet of junk and digging her sweater out from the bottom. "It's right here," she said, shaking out the wrinkles. Kelly also walked in without her shirt. No...wait. I wrote that wrong. She was wearing a shirt...just not the right one. "It's right here," she said, pulling it out of the closet and snipping the tags off. Rachel saw me in the hall and dove for cover into the nearest room.

"I can't find it," she admitted, "I've searched EVERYWHERE."

"Did you check the garbage," Geri muttered.

"What," I asked.

"Nothing," Geri said, jealous of Rachel's festive blue sweater devoid of a happy reindeer.

Sondra, a shining star of responsibility, was wearing her Christmas sweater with a smile more or less plastered to her face all day, determined to make the best of this.

The school community was obviously confused by the implementation of a holiday dress-code.. "Uh, Mrs. Mosiman," the school secretary said gently, "Were you aware that Ms. Nichol is wearing the same sweater?" "Really," I said, "What a coincidence!" Each member of the 4th grade team (except Rachel) received this same message approximately fifty times each before someone eventually caught on. My gift was such a rousing success that I plan on implementing it EVERY year! To ensure that no one is left out, though, I believe that I will store next year's holiday sweaters personally and distribute them on the scheduled debut day...I have FINALLY found my role on the 4th grade team: Costume manager!

I find your lack of Christmas tree-shape...disturbing

The photo does not do my wall "art" justice. It is actually much more hideous in person. The original idea was to have the children graph the letters in their names ("Sorry about that, by the way, Jeremiah.  And Madeleine...aren't you glad you moved before I rolled this little assignment out?" Like rats escaping a sinking ship... Ian, however, was thrilled with this little project.) and then calculate the area and perimeter of their personalized creations. Great. Colorful. Meaningful. Not a worksheet. Not Mrs. Mosiman droning on and on (and on) for hours. I would then take their completed crafts and arrange them on the wall to resemble a Christmas tree.

Uh-huh. Knowing that even the slightest hint of ingratitude or criticism will send me into a soda-sucking rage, the children regarded the finished "tree" with care. "Yeah," they said slowly, squinting their eyes and tilting their heads as though trying to locate the image in those hidden picture portraits at the mall, "it does kind of look like a tree shaped like Darth Vader's head." Stung by their harsh observations, I outlined the area (math humor) in festive holiday lights.  "That looks great," my students said excitedly, immediately taken in by the bright lights of the Darth Vader-shaped tree on their classroom wall. Visitors to the room would glance at our unusual decoration and pause as they fought for the right descriptive words. My kids inevitably would help them out. "Mrs. Mosiman made us a tree shaped like Darth Vader's head," they'd brag. I finally couldn't stand it and whipped out the green cellophane wrap and wrestled it onto the wall. I stood back to admire the effect and was immediately devastated. It didn't look any more tree-like...even with the appropriate color. I hurriedly cut out eyes and a respirator mask to attach to my "tree," slapped a light-saber on the wall and called it a day. The kids couldn't have been happier and no one questioned this decision as it coincided with the debut of the new "Star Wars" movie.

We learned a lot from this experience. That Mrs. Mosiman forcing fifteen names into a discernible shape is the path to the dark side. That Mrs. Mosiman forcing fifteen names into a discernible shape leads to anger. That Mrs. Mosiman forcing fifteen names into a discernible shape leads to fear. That Mrs. Mosiman forcing fifteen names into a discernible shape leads to suffering. We cannot unlearn what we have learned.

Does Rudolph have hemorrhoids?

Without a doubt, our intentions were good (How often have I said THAT before?). Personalized holiday cards to our veterans. Whipped up a sure-proof YouTube video on how to step-by-step draw Santa's sleigh using number and letter shapes and then, add to that, the whimsical touch of thumbprint reindeer. Sounds fabulous, doesn't it? What could be easier? Sigh.

We ended up with sleighs that made it look like Santa was flying a barcalounger, a bumpercar or one of the Jetson's space-age flying saucers along with a new species of reindeer  that I privately named Cat-a-corns (half caterpillar/half unicorn). One student adorned Rudolph with a red "nose" on both the east and west side of the deer causing me to wonder if the animal suffered from an unfortunately-placed zit or hemorrhoids. It gives the word "tail-light" new meaning, anyway.

Without (much) comment or criticism, I handed each student two picture images; (1) a cartoon saluting soldier and (2) him- or herself to cut and glue so as to look as though they are riding right along with Santa. Instructed to cut each figure at the waist for perspective, student after student hotly objected. "He's not real, Matthew," I explained for the thousandth time, "For goodness sake, I'm not asking you to cut a REAL soldier in half." Out of all the people represented in that sleigh, I never thought we'd be debating about the reality-status of the military guy! This instruction also gave us a lovely opportunity to discuss the meaning of the word sacrilegious. Letting the flag touch the ground. Yes-sacrilegious. Swearing in church (or anywhere, for that matter). Yes-sacrilegious. Cutting a paper image of a soldier in half so it looks as though he's riding in Santa's sleigh. NO! Not sacrilegious! Some students did cite religious reasons to avoid this perceived desecration of a clipart image so many cards ended up looking like the veteran and the student were dangerously clinging to the side of Santa's speeding sleigh:  Mission Impossible-style. "This is why people just buy their cards," I muttered to myself as I observed a cat-a-corn with a Quasimodo-inspired hunchback rear up on his hind-legs like a mighty stallion. Making cards with 4th graders takes too much patience and preparation. Or, in Rudolph's case...Preparation-H.

Why Brad wants brake fluid for Christmas

http://www.zazzle.com/dachshund+bumperstickers

I tend to view warning lights as helpful suggestions. The Mosimans have never owned a vehicle that didn't come with a standard "Check engine light" permanently displayed on the dashboard. A betting pool was immediately established the minute Savannah drove her new car off the dealership a few months ago but it looks as though the curse of the warning lights is partial only to Mosimans residing in New York State.

Brad recently jumped into our Titan and noted with some surprise, not one...but two warning lights illuminated. "When were you planning to mention this," he asked, immediately digging into the owner's manual. I reacted to his surprise with surprise. "Honey," I said soothingly, "no worries. I did a diagnostic check and we're fine." "What did you do," he inquired suspiciously. "Well...when the brake light came on, I pressed down on the brake pedal. The truck stopped. Good to go. I even repeated this procedure going down a hill to be safe," I said reassuringly. He looked doubtful. "What about the other light?" I admit I blushed a little. "I think it's appalling that they even have a light for that," I whispered. Confused, Brad re-checked the manual. "You mean a light for the slip differential?" "No," I said softly, glancing around to make sure no one could hear us. "The bdsm light." Brad sighed, "It's blsd." "Oh," I said, "what's that?" "Limited slip differential," Brad explained, reading from the manual, "is an arrangement that allows for some difference in angular velocity of the output shafts." I nodded wisely..."See? Same thing!"

Breaking and entering (into a photo collage)

It was a year in the planning. "You're doing what?" My daughter Savannah asked, her voice cracking with condemnation all the way from Connecticut. I kind of understood her shock. I am, normally, a law-abiding citizen although I do admit to occasionally engaging in brief rampages of rule-breaking. I've spent almost a decade overcoming my spoon-stealing fetish. I was told that when one is seeking to stop a cycle of bad behavior, you must replace it with another action. Want to stop smoking cigarettes? Chew gum. Stop stealing spoons? Filch forks instead. See? Easy!

My friend Sarah (the epitome of good behavior) and I meet several times a year for lunch. Over the years, we've noticed wonderful framed collages of vintage photographs decorating the walls of our restaurant. "Wouldn't it be fun to sneak a picture of us in one of them," someone (I'm sure it was Sarah) suggested. And the game was on.

As any respectable criminal will tell you, the first step to a successful caper is to "case the joint." A discreet peek at the back of the frames revealed layers of dust. No judgment. This just told us that no one ever really pays attention to these decorations (except us). The next step was to assemble a supplies list. A hot glue gun topped the list...Sarah and I are big fans of Pinterest so we knew that this piece of equipment was essential. A box cutter and scotch tape followed. A washcloth "borrowed" from a hotel was thrown in at the last minute so that the hot glue gun wouldn't cause a purse fire.

Sarah was the set-up man: discreetly plugging in the glue gun and dropping the purse for the second wave of the plan. Not a seasoned-stealer of spoons like me, she was a little jittery...waving me off initially like a horde of butterflies was attacking her face. I believe she may have mouthed the word "abort" to me, but it was too late. My adrenaline would not allow me to turn back at this juncture.

I quickly removed the frame from the wall and, using the blade, eased the backing off to observe, to my consternation, that wood had been nailed in place. I rummaged through the purse but realized I'd forgotten to pack a hack-saw. I grabbed another frame...losing hope. Whew! One small incision and I was through! The tabs that kept the backing in place cut into my fingers and I cursed the lack of a flat-headed screwdriver. Droplets of sweat began to form on my concentrated brow as I maneuvered our picture into place, not wanted to block anyone's beloved aunt from view. Time was ticking by rapidly as I replaced the frame on the wall, swept my supplies back into my purse (burning my hand on the glue-gun) and returning casually to Sarah who sat at out table looking like the judge had already dropped the gavel. Relieved, we casually finished our coffee and tea before walking easily from the establishment. Sarah laughed when we successfully made it to the parking lot without the accompaniment of sirens and a SWAT team. "We're like our own Ocean's Eleven," she said. Clutching our carry-out containers, we hugged good-bye, closing the door on our life of crime.

Goodnight, Rottweiler

Step 1:  Alert your sleeping friends that you
are lonely and in need of some snuggle-time.
This involves adopting the verbalization skills of
a demented owl, tapping your bedtime buddy
 "lightly" with your paw, and jumping up and down on
your rear legs like an unbalanced kangaroo or a circus
poodle

 There may be a reason that the big dog doesn't get as much screen-time as the dachshund. Please note the illustrated depictions of what has become routine rottweiler bedtime behavior. It has become a cycle of madness.

Step 2:  Your gentle awakening tactics aren't
working. Time to execute Plan B:  The Bells.
Your friends were so excited when you
learned to ring them, communicating your
need to visit Nature's Relief Station.
Incessant ringing seems to be getting
their attention.

Step 3:  Excellent progress! After giving your butt
a boost, your friend is thrilled to share her
blankets with you!

Step 4:  Boy! It's hot under those covers! You
shake them enthusiastically loose, thoughtfully
uncovering your pal who must also be a bit
over-heated. You suddenly catch a glimpse of
something out the window and spring into
action. Bark! Bark! Barky-barky-bark-bark!
"Juno," your friend yells approvingly, "It's just
your reflection!" Why...so it is! All is safe and well...
so you plop on top of your friend, rendering
her cold and immobile for the next several hours.

Safyre: A precious jewel for Christmas

Christmas...the most exasperatingly magical time of the year. Our school's holiday shop is up and running and, with fists full of dollars, students race down to buy presents for...themselves?!? Most often, the parental instruction is to purchase gifts for family members and then, if (IF) there is any money left over...to then get yourself a little something/something. Unfortunately, the laws governing proportionality are slightly askew in the 4th grade. "Let's see...$0.25 for Dad which leaves...hmmm....$3.75 for me!" That kid will eventually gain employment determining the budget for the federal government.

I admit it occasionally gets a little discouraging. I've almost adopted Lucy's perspective:  "Face it. We all know that Christmas is a big commercial racket. It's run by a big eastern syndicate, you know." But yesterday, Room 24 was able, for a moment, to stop focusing on ourselves to instead focus on a little girl who didn't want a three-foot-tall Elsa castle or the latest and greatest P2P-4000. All she wanted was Christmas cards. Safyre Terry has experienced more devastating emotional and physical pain in her 8 years than most people will ever know in a lifetime. My students stared at Safyre's image displayed on the Smartboard, speechless as they began processing what this little girl has had to endure and the difficult road that is still in front of her. And all she wants are cards. Well...we could certainly do that!

Our first obstacle was her name. I phonetically tried "Sa-fear-ee" for awhile until my little Andrew suddenly piped up, the light-bulb over his head clearly visible to the entire class. "Sapphire!" he exclaimed and the room erupted, immediately recognizing that he was correct. "That's perfect," one of my girls said, clapping her hands, "because she's as precious as a jewel." We donned coats and trounced outside to take pictures so that they could be added to the decoration of the cards. "We want it to look like we're holding hands with Linus," I said, wrestling my somewhat reluctant boys into place for their pose.

Writing the messages INSIDE the card was a lesson in sensitivity as we discussed that, in this case, what we leave OUT is almost as important as what we include. "Why?" I asked. "Because she doesn't need to be reminded of her pain," Vanessa explained. We brainstormed some and then got to work. Their cards made me want to cry.  There was no out-of-balance proportionality going on here. Only 100% love and sincerity. With her simple wish for Christmas cards, Safyre had given Room 24 a valuable gift. For one incredible moment, we had stopped focusing on what WE wanted and instead, turned our attention to the needs of someone else. And in the process, realized how incredibly blessed we are. And that's what Christmas is all about! God bless you, Safyre...and thanks.

Oh Christmas Tree, Oh Christmas Tree...your branches are so bend-y

"I didn't know that the literal meaning of "trim the tree" was to actually cut its branches," my daughter Sydney observed as I hacked at our unruly decoration with my gardening shears after Brad had spent the better part of a half hour whittling the bottom into a manageable shape to accommodate the base-holder. He didn't appreciate my helpful suggestions of carving the trunk stem into a bear or a gnome. Syd and I lassoed lights around the tree and then we wrestled it into the living room, littering the floor with flesh-penetrating pine needles.

"What should we name him," I asked as we watched only the red lights blink on and off. I noticed that a majority of the branches appeared to point upwards almost as though our tree was..."Flip," I yelled, "We'll call him Flip!" Declaring it sacrilegious to christian a conifer with a cuss word, Brad stormed off. "Well," I mused, "Flip could stand for flippant." "What does flippant mean," Sydney asked.  After she managed to survive my withering gaze for her vocabulary short-comings, I explained that flippant meant irreverent. "That is NOT a word," Sydney protested. I sighed. We perform variations of this word waltz once every other month or so where EVERY time I am proven right regarding the definition of a term. And yet, I am still routinely accused of making up words. "You mean irrelevant," Sydney corrected. "No," I replied firmly, "irreverent." "You sound like Scooby-Doo," she accused. Irreverent IS hard to say, I thought to myself. Irregardless (of whether irregardless is actually a word), my college-age daughter should still be finding ways to widen her vocabulary. And, as with all things, one sure-fire method is to always ask your mother.