An out-"stein"-ing classroom prize

Every Sunday, after breakfast at Laurie's Restaurant, Sydney gazes wistfully at the rag-tag group of thirty or so people gathered on the street corner at Buffalo and Main. No...they are not homeless. No...they are not soliciting (meaningful wink inserted here).  They are antiquing. What? Yes. Antiquing. And so determined, are they, to antique, that they faithfully huddle in wind, rain, snow and public ridicule outside the shop, anticipating its ten o'clock open time.

Brad and I had avoided this for a year but Sydney finally wore us down. Well...Sydney's persistence coupled with our own morbid curiosity. What could possibly be in there to warrant such devotion?

I was about to find out.

It was mostly what you would expect. A lot of Looney Tunes jelly glasses, blue glass roosting hen candle jars, and those tiny Red Rose animal figurines. But hidden among these common collectibles, I spotted a true treasure! Almost miniature dachshund in height (see picture), stood a stein of epic proportions. Sporting a Revolutionary War-era British soldier, this delightful drinking glass was the perfect prize for my 4th graders as we delved into this very subject. Thrilled, I held it up for Brad's inspection. By his wrinkled nose, I could tell he also thought that this was a magical mug. He glanced at the price tag.  One dollar. "Sold," he said generously.

Previously-loved by its creative former owner, my stein must have been used as a floral arrangement centerpiece as its bottom was completely stuffed with decayed green foam which Brad semi-enthusiastically attacked with the long-handled screwdriver which would later stand in for a sapling in our yard for a week. "Good as new," I exclaimed as I peered inside, "Seems kind of empty, though." Brad walked away before I could say more.

A few days later, we stopped at the grocery store and I spotted a patriotic table decoration. Shiny red, silver and blue stars erupted from its blue-foiled base. Perfect. Brad glanced at its price tag. One dollar. "Perfect," he conceded. But not so perfect as we watched our patriotic "filler" disappear into the depths of our almost-miniature-dachshund-tall British soldier stein. Brad walked away.

As luck would have it, I had forgotten to buy a ball of mozzarella cheese for our caprese salad so, a few days later, back to the store I went. I wandered past the bulk candy to see if there was any American-ish candy to help balance out my British mug. Nope. "You can't get any more American than Hershey," Savannah advised as I called her from aisle four. I glanced at the price tag and realized my British "bargain" might cause my husband to revolt if I filled it with five dollars worth of candy. The price of putting together this incredible prize is high, I thought to myself, contemplating my marriage as I continued my journey through the grocery store, but it's a price I'm willing to pay. Suddenly, I stopped. Where had I heard those inspiring words before? Gasping, I raced to the breakfast foods aisle and there it was! A package of Captain America fruit gummies. On sale! Once again, he'd saved the day!

"What could be MORE American than Captain America fruit gummies," I said to my husband as I stuffed them in the stein. He nodded solemnly before asking, "Hey, where's the ball of mozzarella? I thought we were going to have caprese salad tonight." Eyes wide with horror (and now, hunger), I looked at my husband apologetically as he walked away. Sometimes the cost of a classroom prize is just too great.

Saplings, shovels and sanity (Mine or his?)

TEXT to Savannah, Tuesday, April 19th

So...Daddy asked me to look at something with him yesterday. We walk over to his mountain of kayaks and he says, "We have too many ______." 

"Boats," I answer for him.

"No," he looks annoyed at me, "too many saplings." 

He points out five saplings growing at various heights around the Mosiman homestead. Now begins the laborious plan on where to plant them. They should, of course, be equidistant to one another and pre-existing trees. I am ordered to stand in a spot marked off by your father while he strides away, muttering number counts to himself. He makes it to the tree located on the corner by our mailbox and spins around to face me, waving his arm impatiently to indicate that he would, please, like me to move over to a more-perfect alignment with said tree. I am immediately reminded of the episode from M*A*S*H where Frank Burns lines up the condiments in order of likability versus height. Your dad then strides across the yard several more times, doing complicated algorithms in his head before he realizes that I am laughing hysterically at him. I am sent indoors where Sydney and I watch him walk back and forth across the front yard thousands of times, counting. I cannot decide if he is more like your grandfather methodically hanging pictures on his symmetrical portrait wall or Frank Burns. 

Excess saplings were decided (Apparently he'd forgiven me or just wanted to torture me some more: "Would you come outside with me, please?") to be transplanted across the road, between us and the neighbors. The saw jaw was set up with a mile-long extension cord. "I should probably be out there with you..." I said without enthusiasm. Daddy then uprooted trees, untangled vines, and chopped down 1,000 pound branches for me to drag across the road...from our neighbor's property onto MY property. There was a short in one of the extension cords interrupting power to the mighty saw jaw and I was instructed, calmly and politely, to SUBTLY adjust the short. WHAT?!?!? Then...despite the fact that I have a HUGE truck AND a 4-wheeler, we then dragged a million giant trees and branches over the hill. 

Later that day...AFTER I had folded laundry, done dishes, made the chicken mandarin salad, baked banana bread, and swept...I got up out of the captain's chair...a bit stiff. "Why are you stiff," he asked.  AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!! 

Heart,
      Mom

TEXT to Mom, Tuesday, April 19th

He showed me his trees the last time I was out there. This has been long in the waiting. Good thing I worked yesterday; I have a feeling that seven hours isn't far enough away to keep me from that fun! 

Regards, 
         Savannah 

TEXT to Savannah, Monday, April 25

So, after a week of having a screwdriver as a sapling placeholder in my lawn..."Has it taken root," I asked sweetly as your father finally removed it to mow the lawn...Operation Tear Out and Transplant has been altered to accommodate your dad's broken shovel that lost the wrestling match with a particularly tenacious tree. "Did you just laugh," he asked. "I didn't know that cracking sound was your shovel," I admitted, "I thought it was the tree." I had been unable to hold back my joy that there would be one less plant to plant. 

We regarded the wounded shovel solemnly. "Jeff gave me this," your father said sadly, showing off his sensitive side. As part of the eulogy, we remarked upon its narrow spade-like features capable of cutting through (practically) anything. "It was a fine, long-handled shovel," he lamented before entering into another stage of grief; resurrection. "You know, I think I can fix this," he said ("Yeah...sometime in the next decade maybe," I thought to myself.) before we engaged in a fierce wrestling match in the driveway. 

Heart,
      Mom

TEXT to Mom, Monday, April 25

You wouldn't even let him save the handle? Mom...life is about compromise. If Daddy hadn't saved all those broom and mop handles over the years, you wouldn't be able to unwrap your wind-blown flag everyday or herd Chlo out of the field.

Regards, 
         Savannah 

TEXT to Savannah, Monday, April 25

Yeah...yeah...yeah...whatever. I'm not Bo Peep, Savannah. THEN...your father proceeded to plant his teeny-tiny trees along the hedgerow (See passage on 1,000 pound branches). At one point, he lost one of his precious saplings because it blended in perfectly with all the other sticks that littered the ground. "Don't worry," he assured me, holding it triumphantly aloft, "I found it." I wasn't worried. Well...not about the lost sapling. Your father's lost sanity...? Please come home...he's talking about his "three" gardens now. "What three gardens?" I (foolishly) asked, looking at our two raised beds. He proudly pointed out an expanse of grass that has clear gardening potential. Please come home.

Heart,

      Mom

TEXT to Mom, Monday, April 25

No.

Regards,

         Savannah

          

Dave Ramsey is not a tool! (to use against your husband)

(DISCLAIMER:  Dave Ramsey is MUCH more attractive than
my poor attempt of depicting him in cartoon-fashion.)

 "You're still planning on going, right?" my husband asked (several times).  Poor Brad. He had to work over-night so Syd and I would be attending the third installation of our "Dave Ramsey" class without him. Who would be there to glare at us when we were chatting with our friends? Who would be there to yell at Sydney because it's pointless to yell at me? "You read the chapter, right?" he asked (several times). I stared at him incredulously. "You remember I graduated Magna Cum Laude, correct," I reminded him, disgusted that he would even think to ask if I'd read the chapter. Puh-leeze!

"We ARE going, right?"  Syd whispered. I sighed. Barring natural disaster, the Rapture or an intestinal issue, I couldn't really see us getting out of it. And as Brad had already heard us discussing our pre-class McDonald's plan, that ruled out a feasible medical excuse. So, with a quick but heartfelt intercessory prayer, we headed out, determined to embrace a zero-based budget.

Let me first say that our course instructors, Don and Luttie are fabulous; professional and patient (Syd tends to get a bit rowdy during the break-out group portion of the class). I, myself, THRIVE in the academic setting. I live for the words: "Would anyone like to share...?" I'm the one to remind teachers to check the homework and am then devastated if I don't receive a sticker for my extraordinary effort. Skeleton notes are my thing. So...why make Brad's life so miserable? Because it's fun.

So what was I going to do without Brad there? The entertainment value of the class plummeted by 33% without Brad next to me, sitting on the edge of his seat as he spends each class hoping that I wouldn't feel compelled to share the moment when, early in our marriage, he made me choose between a pair of cute socks or a journal as a souvenir during a trip to the Atlantic City where we didn't gamble, eat in a sit-down restaurant or hire a pedicab for a romantic jaunt down the boardwalk to buy some saltwater taffy. It's been over 20 years since that horrible trip. Why bring it up now?

I perused the workbook before class began and brightened, hatching my plan. The skeleton notes! Of course, the skeleton notes! Brad would want to review them before the next class (Some of the Mosimans tend to be a bit on the over-achieving side when it comes to preparedness.). So I filled in the notes, Amy-style, before lightly crossing the wrong answers out to replace them with the correct responses. It would drive Brad NUTS! Perfect!

Brad whipping our wild money into shape.

Except...(there's ALWAYS an "except")...I didn't anticipate my friend Sue coming in mid-way, after worship team practice, and needing to be caught up on her notes. In my peripheral vision, I saw her glance my way as she noticed that, instead of "You must do a written cash flow plan every month," I had written, "You must do a written haiku every month." I heard a smothered snicker in response to "Over drafts are a sign of a creative mind," (instead of crisis living). A noticeable snort greeted, "The most popular method of banking by far is spanking" (internet banking). And then, of course, there were the roughly-drawn cartoons. Poor Sue.

Then I dragged her into a fight during our break-out discussion group where we were pitted against fellow classmates Renee and Margaret. The objective:  To pare down the given budget of a newlywed couple so that they could gain extra payments on their car debt. Renee and Margaret ruthlessly slashed our couples' $400 monthly grocery budget in half and declared their $200 restaurant budget ridiculous. "But Chris and Sarah have to eat," we argued, having formed an emotional attachment to our soon-to-be-hungry imaginary newlyweds. "Let them live on love," someone snapped, Marie Antoinette-style. Wow! And this all happened in a class with the word "peace" in the title. Plus no one was interested in setting aside a few dollars per month for Chris and Sarah to take a romantic trip to Atlantic City!

State testing and soup: At least ONE of those things is easy to swallow

"Why are we doing this again," my husband asked as he chopped potatoes for the hot dog soup we were preparing. Brad HATES hot dog soup. Even the smell makes him shudder so he was being a true champion. "It's the last day of state testing," I explained, "and I want to reward my students for working so hard." "This is considered a reward?" he said incredulously, watching in horror as I stirred hundreds of fried hot dog coins into my simmering mixture of crushed tomatoes and onions.

Sydney arrived home from work and immediately wrinkled her nose. "Is that hot dog soup," she worriedly wondered. "It's not for you," I snapped, more annoyed than ever as I watched relief wash over her face. "It's my way of showing my 4th graders that I appreciate their efforts. They're going to eat lunch in the classroom, enjoying a bowl of hot dog soup while watching "Johnny Tremain." Sydney stared at me. "That sounds AWFUL. I thought you liked your kids. Have you never heard of ice cream or even just a cookie?"

I would not be daunted by the cruel teasing of my family (except for Savannah who checked the postal rates on shipping a bowl out to her). Lugging my eighty pound crockpot, I staggered up the sidewalk to the school. Enjoying the scene on the security camera, the school secretary, Joanne took pity on me and opened the doors as I approached. She then gave me a detailed history of why boiled hot dogs should be eradicated from the very face of the planet. I watched as even the thought of hot dogs made her wretch. I was starting to get a queasy feeling in my stomach. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea.

Having built up a bowl of hot dog soup to the equivalency level of the Second Coming, my 4th graders were beyond excited as our brew bubbled away. "I like your ladle," several said, making me blush. My free-standing lime green dinosaur ladle had been a passive-aggressive gift from an Italian girlfriend who refuses to even accept the notion of hot dog soup as a member of the food pyramid.

My administrator popped in with some words of encouragement and remarked, "Mmmm...something smells good." A rare comment indeed in a 4th grade classroom. When told, I watched him carefully extract himself from our lunchtime invitation by saying that, while he liked the smell, he wasn't really a big fan of hot dogs.

We are aware, People, that hot dogs are considered to be a patriotically American food, right?!? Where is your national pride?

I conducted a brief pre-lunch lecture regarding etiquette between a hostess and her guests. "Gagging is not socially acceptable behavior," I instructed, "when tasting someone's food." I deliberately overlooked the time where I had leaped up from the dinner table, clasped my hands over my mouth, and raced into the restroom to re-direct what I thought was a hard-boiled egg. I still maintain that I had been a victim of sabotage. The gelatinous yolk of my friend Deb's soft-boiled egg came out of nowhere and thus, consequently, HAD to go somewhere. And somewhere was NOT down my throat.

I served up the stew to my eager children and hardened my heart. I should have brought in Hydroxes. Two students politely tapped out before their bowl was even filled. We sat in the darkness, watching in wonder as Red Coats fell in bloodless battle. "Did a bullet even hit that guy," Eric asked in disgust. "Mrs. Mosiman," a voice whispered next to me. "May I have another bowl?" I narrowed my eyes. What was wrong with this kid? Was he teasing me? Had he lost all his tastebuds in a horrific dare-you-to-stick-your-tongue-to-a-metal-pole accident? Was he an Eddie Haskell-syndrome sufferer? I re-filled his bowl and, before I knew it, there was a line of kids (Does three count as a line?) waiting for a second-helping as well! "Thank you, Mrs. Mosiman." grateful little voices called out as I returned to my seat to enjoy my soup and movie.

At the end of this day, I would go home with an empty crockpot and a full heart.

Ripping into Dave Ramsey

When it has come to my finances, I have always been optimistic. "Is optimistic another word for apathetic?" my husband asked. So while Brad dramatically declared that he felt like we were drowning in debt a decade ago, I (like my cartoon alter-ego, Dory) just kept swimming merrily along. "It'll all work out," I hummed with bubbling enthusiasm.

Because his nerves were beginning to fray, Brad gave up listening to The Frey on his ridiculously long daily commutes and started listening to Dave Ramsey. Instead of rocking out to Nickleback, Brad began actively seeking ways to actually get his nickle back. No problem, I thought to myself, whatever keeps him off my back.

But then all these ridiculous suggestions kept popping up. "What would you think about keeping our monthly bill money in labeled envelopes?" Brad asked. I shrugged. Whatever floats your boat, there, Big Guy. Wait a second!!! My grocery money is considered BILL MONEY?!? Then Brad casually borrowed my magic debit card one day and I never saw it again. "How do I buy groceries," I cried. Brad waved some flimsy green paper in front of me. I got my revenge by spending it TO THE CENT every week...family members trembling in horror that we might go over and Mom might have to, gasp...have the cashier remove some items from the bill (or start eliciting charitable donations from other customers in line).

So for ten years, Brad determinedly dug us out of debt and I energetically made his life miserable. He would celebrate as each debt domino fell and I would whine that buying two dozen plush pachyderms for the culmination of Elephant Week in 4th grade was a reasonable request. More often than not, he paid for the pachyderms. And then, finally, "we" did it. "We" were out of debt. Thank goodness, I sighed,  Now I can live the life I deserve. But...oh no...now the lunatic...oops, the love of my life...was focused on investments and retirement. Alright...who WAS this Dave Ramsey character? And what did he do to my husband? I was about to find out.

Over twenty years ago, Brad decided that our family should go to church. He researched...did some visits...and then was ready. He was ready. I was perfectly happy "home-churching" myself. That consisted of me not switching the channel too slow-ly on a Sunday morning if I accidentally stumbled on some sort of repellent...ahhh...reverent religious programming. "You go ahead," I encouraged, plopping down happily in the living room. I half-listened as he got four-year-old Savannah ready to go. "Why isn't Mommy going," I heard her sweet voice ask (which I am sure she was reading from cue cards Brad was holding up). "Maybe someday she'll want to go with us," Brad said tearfully to his daughter while his wife stormed into the bedroom to get dressed for church.

Two weeks ago, Brad decided to take the Dave Ramsey class offered at church. "But we're OUT of debt," I argued, "And Thursday night television is pretty good." He glanced at our younger daughter, Sydney whose recent hobby is taking back redeemable cans for spending money as all her cash is aimed at college tuition. "I thought it would be a good idea for someone in our family..." he whispered while I glared. Please.

"Why don't you introduce yourselves and tell us why you're here," our financial coach began. Oh yeah. I was all over this. Brad winced as I began. "I'm Amy Mosiman," I smiled, "Could you please direct me to the chapter that discusses hiding money from your spouse? If there isn't one, I'd be happy to submit some ideas."

Plus we have homework. Are you serious? So I'm reading Dave's book (Yeah...we're on a first name basis now...when you want to beat someone up...you don't shout, "Hey! Where's Mr. Ramsey?") aloud to Brad when we get to a section detailing the different "types" of partners. Apparently, Brad is classified as a Nerd while I am a Free Spirit. Well, guess what, Dave Ramsey? YOU DO NOT KNOW ME! Then Dave gives some rules for these types of people. Rules?!?! Do you see me leaning against my motorcycle with a lollipop sticking out of my mouth, muttering, "Budgeting? Fiscal responsibility? What else you got, Dave Ramsey?"

Rule #1:  You must COME TO THE MEETING (What the hiddey-hey! Did Brad call him?)

Another rule:  You have to stop saying, "What ever you want to do, honey."

Well...I did stop. I stopped right there and, to Brad's horror, ripped that page right out of the book. Would a free spirit do THAT, Dave Ramsey?!?

Okay...I feel better. Where's the scotch tape?

Diphthong and I'm right..."Wild" IS a one-syllable word!

It's been all-out haiku war in my house for months now. "You call THAT a haiku," one family member will snarl at another, "I'll show you a haiku!" Yesterday, two black ermines raced across the road as we were driving to church. "Wild ferrets frolic," I mused aloud, doing the pre-requisite syllable count on my fingers. Before I knew it, my husband tossed three yellow flags onto my haiku field of play. According to him:

 #1 A ferret is NOT a mink,
#2 The critters in question were NOT "playing" and
#3 The word "wild" is composed of two syllables.

So much for readying my heart on a Sunday morning...

"Why can't we just enjoy nature like a normal family," lamented Sydney from the back passenger seat as Brad and I loudly debated artistic license, integrity and authenticity. I already knew that a ferret is NOT a mink, thank you very much but my love of alliteration gives me a little lee-way. But, as a result of this ridiculous conversation (inspired by one simple, five-syllable line), we discovered that there is a difference of ten chromosomes between the burrow-dwelling ferret and his semi-aquatic pal. And yes...I knew they weren't "frolicking" but decided to abstain from the other f-word on a Sunday because, yes, I am that classy.

The question of syllable composition, however, followed us into church. Our poor pastor...slowly making his way to us, kindly inquiring about the lives of his parishioners, offering gentle encouragement and reassuring words to those around us...was quickly made the deciding judge on our debate. "Wild," he frowned, thinking (It's not like he had anything MORE important to think about...)...He glanced worriedly in my direction (The man is aware of which member of the Mosiman family most resembles a human grenade) before answering, "Two." Naturally, I exploded.

To calm me, our pastor then conducted an independent poll from the pulpit (which also resulted in a tie and me not becoming calm). Subsequent research later (as soon as we got out to the truck and I got my hands on Brad's Smartphone) revealed that the dictionary categorizes "wild" as a monosyllabic word but (BUT) as the word contains a diphthong (where one vowel sound drifts...beginning as one vowel sound and ending as another [i=eye-to-el-think how you would phonetically spell the letter "L" as a word]) it could...COULD...be considered a two-syllable word.

"Whew," Sydney breathed a sigh of relief, "See..you were both right!" Further investigation on my part, though, also revealed that different dialects may accentuate the diphthong, forcing a word-unnaturally into more syllables. "Well, there you go," I shouted in my solid Western New York accent. "Your mid-western accent is an abomination to the English language," I said to my husband, vowing to ban him from haiku-writing forever-more. "Back me up here," I said, turning to Sydney who, with a twinkle in her eye, slid her fingers together before replying, "I'm WARSHING my hands of this matter altogether."

Wait...You actually want me to READ the book?!?!?

It's enough to make even the most patient of teachers scream. Unfortunately, I am not even close to being the most patient of teachers. For three days straight, as soon as each of my cherubs completed their state tests, they were given a historical fiction novel to read...wrought with the excitement and intrigue that accompanied the underground spy network that shaped the American Revolution. Who wouldn't want to read that?!? (Sigh).

So for three days, I was cast into a biblical darkness; separated from my students and powerless to act...held hostage as they pretended to "read" while remaining scholars completed their exams. But, as dusk settled upon Day Three of testing, I arose, anew...shaking the ash from my renewed feathers and poised my sharpened talons to strike. Sorry...caught up in my enthusiasm, I did an inadvertent mash-up of Greek myth and Bible story there.

Silently, I placed a postie-note on each child's desk. "What is this for," I was asked, again and again but I refrained from answering until each customer had been served his/her allotted portion of Amy Mosiman-revenge. "Please put your name on your postie-note," I said sweetly, "And then number from one to two." "Why? What are we doing," they wanted to know. Or did they? Evil chuckle.

"Fourteen students took the state tests this week," I stated, waiting for them to nod in confused agreement. "And fourteen students were given opportunities to read (I dramatically used quotation marks at this point and my more astute students turned white) this delightful novel." The nods came more slowly this time as they glanced worriedly at one another. "Well," I exclaimed cheerfully, "I have a proposition that may benefit you greatly!" Distrustful stares shot at me from around the room. "If...IF...twelve out of fourteen of you can get a 100% on my little comprehension check, you will no longer have to read the book OR complete the accompanying work packet!" I beamed happily as several heads dropped to their desks in defeated resignation. "Oh! Am I being unfair?" I asked in mock horror, "Well...how about ten out of twelve?" (Foolishly) believing that they might now have a fighting chance, heavy negotiations began until my literary lambs finally coaxed me down to seven. "Okay! Half! If half of the class can answer the two questions about the book after having spent three days being able to read it...we will dump the entire assignment!" Cheers filled Room 24.

"Question #1..." Pencils poised hopefully, fourteen 4th graders were about to face a harsh reality..."What is the name of the book's main character?"

Room 24 was now filled with the sound of weeping and the gnashing of teeth. Miraculously, no one dared imply that perhaps it was an unfair question (as I'm pretty sure I would have launched myself across the room like one of our screaming rocket balloons before hitting the ceiling).

"Question #2..." Shuddering, students resigned themselves to another week of "enjoying" this novel..."What was the main character's occupation?" After the detailed description of Chapter One, I'm pretty sure I could forge my own fire, work my own bellows, smelt my own iron, and shape my own horseshoes, all while attractively dressed in my leather BLACKSMITH's apron!

One! One out of fourteen could answer my two questions. Rewarded with candy, she was invited to continue reading while the rest of us turned back to page one to start over. "When you finish reading Chapter One, come to me and I'll give you the questions," I said before settling in among them to read. "What if we finish reading Chapter One before you," one child dared to ask.

It's enough to make even the most patient of teachers scream.

Sure...it may SOUND like a good idea...

I'm not a huge advocate for test prep but I do systematically expose my sweet cherubs to every possible genre they might encounter on their exam...fiction, non-fiction, folk tale, tall tale, gotcha tail (literary joke...hee hee), science fiction, historical fiction, poetry, prose...this exposure benefits them as discerning scholars AND equips them for success on the test.

But...OH NO! I shot out of bed last week at two in the morning, panic-stricken. I hadn't really covered directional reading. "No self-respecting, able-bodied American reads directions anyway," my husband mumbled before stuffing his head underneath his pillow, leaving me to wallow in my misery.

One glance at the calendar showed me that there was no way that I was going to cram such a gruelingly boring lesson into their heads right before state testing. I dug through my copies of old tests and victoriously pulled out the perfect one:  "Instructions on How to Make a Rocket Balloon." YES! I would have my students partner-read and complete the questions before earning the privilege of making their own rocket balloons! This was going to be great! The kids would LOVE this!

I scrambled to the store for supplies (Brad barely complains now). I needed balloons but there were people in that aisle so Sydney and I headed to the toy section until it cleared. And there...in the dollar section were:  Rocket balloons! A miracle! "God must have placed those people in the other aisle to lead us to these," I squealed, certain that the Lord also knew the importance of my students receiving a lesson on directional reading with a fun twist. This was providential.

It wasn't until I got to my classroom that I actually read the packaging. "Watch 'Em Fly! Hear 'Em Scream!" Okay...maybe it wasn't the Lord directing my steps.

Oh no!

Oh yes.

I had purchased screaming balloons.

As you might imagine, the lesson was a rousing success. With screaming balloons in their future, my students diligently read and re-read their passages, highlighting, discussing, and inferring their ways to the needed 100 score to earn their rocket balloon supplies. I had tied a line of string across the length of one end of our classroom so the rockets could ascend the student-made thread trail across the room. Fortunately, the balloons were challenging to blow up so, for the first ten minutes, the only sound was the gasping of breath while I worried that some students might pass out from hyperventilating. Balloons blown up, attachments in place, I climbed a table to catch perspective pictures of the rockets reaching great heights while my students worried that I would fall and break a bone. I'm not sure which sound was greater: The screaming of balloon rockets or the happy screaming of school children. And that, my friends, is a glimpse of test prep in Room 24. (Insert Mic drop here).

April Fool's Day, Brad!

I am NOT a good practical jokester. I'm not even good at TELLING jokes. I made one up once and Brad will never let me forget it.

ME:  "What did a doughnut say to his friend who had fallen over?"

BRAD:  "What?"

ME:  "Do not get up."

I also tend to laugh all the way through the telling of my jokes which makes it even worse. I came home with a doozy the other day and Brad made me call up Savannah to tell her. She ended up hanging up on me and then calling me back using Facetime so she could watch me tell it.

"There were these two hobo peanuts..." (hysterically laughing at the very thought of a hobo peanut) "...and they were looking to ride the rails...." (snicker snicker) "...for safety's sake, they were looking for an empty train car..." (snicker snicker snort snort) "...but unfortunately, the train car they chose was occupied and one of the peanuts was assaulted." By the conclusion of my joke (which took approximately ten minutes in the telling), Savannah could no longer see me on her little phone screen because I had collapsed onto the floor in a fit of merriment. As usual though, no one else was laughing.

So with my history of failed joke attempts, one would think that I would steer clear of April Fool's Day...especially bearing in mind that I am a "can dish it out but not take it" kind of gal. But, oh no. I spend WEEKS of concentrated research planning my April Fool's Day prank on my husband. My criteria is that the joke should be cute and slightly irritating. It should not be appearance-altering or annoying enough to provoke retaliation.

Last year, I painstakingly painted his shower soap with clear nail-polish. I know...pure genius. But how was I going to up the ante this year? I considered sewing the flies on his underpants shut but I forgot another important criteria point:  The prank should be virtually effortless because I am inherently lazy so sewing was definitely out. I thought he might notice hot glue application so I abandoned the underpants idea altogether. Emptying the filling of a jelly doughnut and re-filling it with mayonnaise also seemed labor-intensive (and just WRONG...like a crime against nature) so I nixed that plan as well.

Finally, after hours of research, I found the perfect April Fool's Day prank for Brad:  Replacing his Kool-Aid with Jell-O!!! I mixed up my magical concoction while he showered that morning, knowing he'd be at work all day to "set" my plan into wiggly-jiggly motion. As supper-time approached, Sydney and I were all a-twitter, waiting for him to discover my trick. But instead of Kool-Aid, he reached for the grape juice. Oh no! Sydney and I stared at each other in alarm. An April Fool's joke on April 2nd isn't funny...it's just plain sad. A lot of dramatic gesticulating and enunciated mouth wording set Plan 2 into play. "Dad," Sydney asked plaintively from the living room, "could you get me a drink?" "Sure, what do you want," Brad unsuspectingly said. "Kool-Aid," she called.

We listened, with hands clamped over our quivering lips, to Brad's footsteps to the cupboard to retrieve a cup, over to the fridge and then...an exasperated sigh. "I really thought you'd matured this year," he said, "How long did you research to find this?" Thank goodness he actually couldn't see me at this point because I had collapsed on the floor in a fit of merriment. April Fool's Day!