Nora: Wearing a Red Carpet Onsie Designed by Flabby Forearms

 I couldn't WAIT to cuddle my friend, Sarah's, new baby girl, Nora! As I am the worst gift-giver on the planet and lack any discernible talent whatsoever, it can sometimes be a challenge to demonstrate my profound feelings for others with meaningful tokens of my affection. I don't sew, knit or crochet. Wood-working is out. Automobile mechanics is off the table. Cooking....? Sigh. Especially given Sarah's high expectations regarding dietary intake. So I did what any desperate person with no creative ability would do:  I painted a onsie. Confident that this gesture would be appreciated, I was nonetheless thrilled to see precious Nora outfitted in her personalized garb during my visit.

UNTIL...I toured her closet. Apparently Sarah's house will soon be under-going extensive reconstruction as they are looking to expand and re-model a room better able to accommodate baby Nora's extensive wardrobe. Forget Blue Ivy. Forget North West. The hottest fashion trends are being sported by none other than Miss Nora. I glared at Sarah. The onsie was obviously a pity-put-on. I realized that, as soon as I left, that infant undergarment would be serving time as a dust-rag. If it could BE that lucky.

Then, poor Nora and I were dragged out to lunch...in public! Fortunately Nora was styling a jaunty little headband to distract her confused fans from her tacky painted onsie. From the picture, you can tell that this baby is seriously pissed at me. And obviously, Sarah also was harboring some vengeful feelings as that is the only explanation as to why she would intentionally add bulbous cellulite to my upper arm area. I do have to hand it to her though. Talk about talent...I didn't know that you could photo-shop a picture while it was still housed in my little Sony camera. I do want to reassure my readers that, in light of this fat-revealing photograph, I have decided to scrap my Couch-to-5k program intentions (also known as the Couch-to--the-Mailbox, Maybe program) and focus on an upper arm regiment. I've discovered that lifting a 20 ounce Pepsi to my lips several times a day in brief bursts targets trouble areas. Let the training begin!

Summer School or Bust

"Hey...how was your day," my husband asked, eager to hear all about my first day of Summer School training. "This," I said, holding up a digital picture for him to see, "was the best part of my day." "Is that a cardboard bear," he guessed, squinting. "Yes," I growled, "I pulled it out of the discard pile." "So the best part of your day was pulling a bent and broken cardboard bear out of the garbage," he said, by way of clarification before daring to ask, "How is it going to fit in with your program?"

The ensuing shriek limited his audial capabilities for quite some time, cutting off communication until I was better able to express my complicated feelings.

"Remember the year I pitched a tent in my Summer School classroom and we hosted reading in there," I sniffed. "What did you say," Brad asked, "You want to go camping?" "Then there was Sundae Fridays where we rewarded students who met their goals to frozen treats at the end of each week." "Huh?" asked my husband, "You want to go to TGI Fridays for ice cream?" "We sang songs, made Worms-in-Dirt, played math games..." I sighed. "How are you going to take the kids fishing," Brad wondered.

So what's the big deal," Brad asked later, when his hearing had (mostly) returned, "You've taught with programs for your entire teaching career." I glared at him. He obviously has NO compassion. "Aren't programs pre-planned for you," he persisted. "Yes," I sulked. I decided that this would not be the time to tell him how, after twenty-five minutes of watching the program webinar, I'd rolled my chair over to my administrator and asked when the commercial would be over. We bought the program...you don't need to sell it to us anymore. Teach me how to use the nifty on-line teacher dashboard! I was handed a fruit gummy and told to behave myself. I spent the remainder of the time outlining my own helpful hour-long webinar complete with celebrity cameos, cartoons and a fun quiz. My administrator made a note to never give me a roll-y chair again.

"So, really what you're frustrated about is that you have to learn something new," Brad summed up, shielding his throat and backing away from me. "I LOVE learning new things," I protested. "We've had our four-wheeler for over a decade," Brad pointed out. "Yeah...so?" I grumbled. "Do you even know how to start it," he asked, shielding other vulnerable parts of his body as I began to shake with fury. "That's not even comparable," I yelled. "Have you ever made a cup of coffee with our keurig machine?" he laughed, "You're just not a big fan of learning new things." "Potato salad!" I screamed. "That's actually a great example," Brad agreed. "It took you twenty years to learn to make  the best potato salad in the world." "How is that a great example," I glared. "You never gave up," he smiled, "just like you won't give up in making this a great learning experience for the kids this year."

So with that somewhat questionable advice and horrible pep-talk, I threw myself back into the ring. A girl, some academic programs and a cardboard bear. All focused on helping students to learn. I've decided to name him Buster.

Thank you?

I learned recently that, according to my contractual obligation, I am legally unable to accept teacher gifts valued at $75 and over. Imagine my profound and debilitating disappointment. That'll teach me to read the fine print prior to signing a contract!

There are some naive fools out there who will try to convince others that the best gifts are free and tra-la-la-dee-da and all that. Just the knowledge that I sent the kids of Room 24 back out into the world a little bit better than when I got them in September should suffice. Or even that they needed minimal therapy as a result of being in Room 24 should be an acceptable reward.

But a gift? An actual tangible representation of appreciation for the thousands of times I said, "Students? Time to return to your seats, please," in my sing-song Snow White voice before barking orders like an Army drill sergeant on his fourth nicotine patch of the day, issuing personalized verbal invitations to the cherubs who didn't think the term "students" applied to them. Yeah...that would be the ENTIRE classroom population. Don't try imagining "The Waltons." It wasn't "Goodnight, Jim-Bob," "Good-night, Mary-Ellen." It was more like "Dead Man Walking" where I yelled a name and said student would shuffle, slowly and reluctantly, toward his/her assigned seat as though it were the electric chair. A gift for me not itching to pull the switch? No...I couldn't possibly...

Or what about during "Elephant Week" where I planned out pachyderm-related fun activities to counter-balance "State Testing Week?" Students who completed ALL the activities won a nifty prize. Apparently not everyone is as driven by prizes as I am but the four students who did receive the cute little stuffed elephant personalized with their names loved them. But never in all my years of teaching though, did I anticipate having to say, "Robert, please stop using your elephant as a weapon" or "Robert...it's a trunk...NOT a trigger." Prizes DID kind of fall flat this year. The five dollar bill stapled to my bulletin board was there so long that my custodian finally asked if he could read the necessary books to become a "Knight." I realized that the $20 for the first prize of my first annual State Capital Bee wasn't enough motivation when I was repeatedly asked what the second place prize was. Presents? No...teaching the children was present enough.

Except is WASN'T...because I was also saddled with parents with wicked...wicked...wicked senses of humor who reveled in making my life miserable! A witness to my daughter falling victim to an avalanche of cheese...End-of-year teaching gift:  A jar of nacho cheese dip (valued at slightly less than $75). A spectator of my spectacularly humiliating lack of Field Day physical prowess...End-of-Year gift:  An 8 X 10 framed photograph of me in all my ridiculous glory (valued at slightly less than $75). Why? Why?!? Why?!?!?!?!? I'd thoughtfully provided my shoe size, restaurants-of-choice, and favorite gem selections at the beginning of the year. The children learned by week two that I do NOT eat apples although Kendra taught me this year that I WILL eat an unpeeled sliced kiwi coin (Go figure). No where, in the fine print, does it say that I have to accept unflattering pictures of myself being humiliating in front of an audience of hundreds. But what I DO accept is establishing relationships that go beyond the report card. Gifts that demonstrate that a parent is doing more than just thanking their child's teacher...they're thanking a friend. Thank you.

The Not-So-Feisty-Ferret's-Field-Day-"Fun"

Thank you, Jesika Forsyth, for taking these awesome
pictures of me racing the wrong way down the track.

 It may go down as one of the worst ideas EVER. The only good thing that I have to say about it was that the idea DID NOT originate from me.

Field Days. Fun. Fresh air.  A platform to promote the virtues of good sportsmanship, endurance, and grit. A chance to celebrate the athleticism of others. Others. As in not me. My contribution to Field Days is limited to hours of decorating t-shirts with fabric paint (Go "Feisty Ferrets!").

Maybe it was the heat. Maybe they just got caught up in the spirit of the moment. I have to believe one of these theories because I refuse to believe that the third grade team challenged my little band of chair-sitting, vending-machine-visiting, park-as-close-to-the-school-entrance-as-possible-without-actually-getting-our-tires-up-on-the-sidewalk (too much) colleagues and myself to a baton relay in an attempt to humiliate us publicly. I listened, with a smile frozen to my face, as the idea was proposed to me. Surely Coach will put a stop to this nonsense, I thought. I've taught all three of his children and he is aware of my daily intake of Pepsi and Snickers bars.

But I watched, in horror, as the idea took hold and excitement spread. Student moms who had joined the "Feisty Ferrets" in the bleachers were thrilled, confident that I would bring honor and glory to the good name of the 4th grade. "There is a reason I stay off of trampolines," I whispered to them as they nodded wisely and offered to hold my hat and keys before pushing me down the stairs toward the track while I prayed that I could hold my weak bladder.

"Where do I go," I asked and was immediately pointed to a spot, far in the distance, next to 3rd grade teacher, Traci. After school, while I'm playing euchre with the 4th grade, Traci works out. In the early morning, while I'm still snoozing, Traci is creating lesson plans while running on her tread-upta-lizer machine. I adamantly refuse to acknowledge that we are the same age.

I watched nervously while Traci stretched. Well...I was committed...so here goes. I glanced over at the bleachers where my moms waved and shouted encouragement. "I think Reagan's mom is saying that I have an important phone call," I told Traci. "No," she frowned, touching both toes with her elbows, "She's reminding you to tie your right shoelace." I couldn't quite reach it so Traci quickly tied it for me. I windmilled my arms out suddenly. "What do you call that move," Traci wondered. "It's the beginning part of downward-facing dog," I explained, hoping she hadn't seen the fly that had buzzed by my ear. "You practice yoga?" Traci said in astonishment. Insulted, I admitted that I didn't. "But I can do the Superman," I said, showing her. My moms cheered.

The firing pistol rang out. Or Coach yelled "Go!" I don't really remember...it was all a blur. Clutching the baton like an Olympic sprinter, my friend Sondra raced toward me. She went from graceful gazelle to limping llama is zero point fourteen seconds. I heard a voice calling out to me. I knew enough not to hope for the Rapture. "I think Kaelin's mom needs me for some vitally important reason," I told Traci who was inexplicably standing poised with her hand outreached, as though she were hoping someone was going to run up and put a Snickers bar in...oh! Suddenly, Traci was gone and I became aware that Sondra was the voice. Calling out..."I have a cramp in my leg." I raced back to her and grabbed the metallic stick-thingy.

My moms later said that I moved like lightning. Reviewing the film footage, I cannot help but admire my excellent posture:  A key component for successful racing. Turns out I was more like a tree waiting to be hit by lightning. And not like a willow or poplar tree. More like an oak.

I'd like to say that we rallied and won. I'm actually fortunate that I didn't retch and weep. Shockingly, the third grade team was victorious. I'm not here to make excuses. That Sondra suffered a detrimental injury. That I had to run in the opposite direction on the track before proceeding forward AND lack any semblance of muscle tone whatsoever AND Traci tied my right shoelace too tight. That another team-mate ran barefoot. That our fourth team-mate has the competitive drive of a paperclip. It was all in good fun.

I was hailed a hero upon my return to the bleachers. My moms high-fived me and assured me that I looked like a super-star out there. "I took pictures," Kaelin's mom told me. "Thanks," I said, a smile frozen to my face. Now I was truly torn about on whom I would first exact my revenge.

Buying drinks on the fly

Okay. Maybe it IS me. I have passionately argued for years that I am relatively normal...just askew enough to be interesting but not too tilted to cause people to actually consider treatment. I've been convinced that the people around me are a tad off-kilter which makes my behavior occasionally appear questionable. But in the grand Me Versus The World Bonkos Battle...I believe I may be slipping a little.

A group of us had gone on a little outing and, as our evening together was coming to a close, my friend Sondra complained she was thirsty. The carload of women immediately went into overdrive to find a store to meet this need. Except for me. "Sondra," I frowned, "we're ten minutes from home." Kelly, who is factual to the point of my wanting to tackle her, said, "Actually, we are precisely fourteen minutes from my house." As Sondra was seated between Kelly and I so I wouldn't be able to get a firm enough grip around Kelly's neck, I concentrated on the middle man...woman. "Can't you wait until we get back," I asked. Of course, she said yes, large doe eyes solemnly willing to make the sacrifice while the remaining passengers treated me with the hostility that millions of "Bambi" fans have directed at the hunter.

So we pulled into a gas station and everyone piled out. "Wait...we're all going in because Sondra needs a drink," I yelled in disbelief. Apparently, not only were we ensuring that Sondra wouldn't dehydrate fourteen minutes from her house but, as a symbol of solidarity, we would all buy beverages as well. I stomped into the store. There was no way that I was going to get a drink. I admit that my pulse quickened as I passed the Pepsi but I stayed strong. "What on earth are you doing," I asked my friend Geri as she inspected the Slushie machine. "Do you think they'd let me buy half a Slushie," she wondered. Bright colors tucked into a tiny corner caught my eye. Tiny flyswatters. Tiny flyswatters with an expandable handle. Tiny flyswatters with an expandable handle discounted fifty percent. Tiny flyswatters with an expandable handle discounted fifty percent for an amazing end cost of forty-nine cents. "What on earth are you doing," my friend Geri asked me, holding a half-a-cup of Slushie. "How much would it cost to get every one of my fourth graders a tiny flyswatter with an expandable handle," I wondered, digging through my pockets. "Wouldn't that make a wonderful end-of-year gift?" Geri's look of disgust (She later claimed that her look was actually the result of a brain-freeze from her half-a-cup of Slushie) convinced me that one tiny flyswatter with an expandable handle was sufficient.

Satisfied, we all piled back into the vehicle, clutching our beverages and flyswatter. As I happily held my tiny flyswatter with the expandable handle, I actually wondered if maybe I was starting to lose my grip on reality. Is my life a joke? Five women walk into a gas station. Four walk out with beverages and one carries a tiny flyswatter with an expandable handle. Is it me?

No one would call this show "cheesy" (Well...maybe ONE person!)

That glow-in-the-dark white image
is none other than Miss Dolly Parton herself!

"I love you, Dolly!" roared a voice from the audience. "Dang it all," she hollered back, "I thought I'd told you to stay in the truck!" So it was that, with the wind whipping at that wig ("If it comes off," she instructed us, "just a-toss it back up onto the stage." We laughed appreciatively at her good humor. She glared. "Y'all think I'm foolin'," she said sternly, "I ain't kiddin'!"), Dolly Parton had us on the edge of our lawn chair seats (which wasn't very safe as we were already slanted at a 45 degree angle) as she sang her classic hits and some new songs.

Wait. New songs? How old is Dolly Parton, anyway? Well, I'm not going to tell you--it's both rude and irrelevant. Let me just tell you...that this lady is STILL writing great songs, learning instruments ("How did you like me playing this acid rock guitar," she asked. "Or, as I like to call it, my acid reflux guitar."), and telling the BEST stories EVER ("My grand-daddy was a Pentecostal preacher and didn't like the way I was dressing and how I was a-wearing my make-up. 'Dolly,' he asked me, 'Don't you want to go to heaven?' I answered, 'I sure do want to go to heaven but do I have to look like hell to get there?'").

So with my feet braced to balance the slope and my eyes shielded against the blinding sun as it slowly set, I was eagerly awaiting the beginning of the show. Sydney had disappeared into the packed crowd on a food run and I whittled away my time trying to imagine what delicious treat she was going to bring back for Brad and me. Fried dough? Mmmm. Maybe a hot dog? That would be okay. Oooo...nachos? We finally spotted her Kansas City Royals ball cap in the crowd so we could mark her careful progress toward us. Waitress skills firmly in place, she carried her concession stand selections up crowded concrete stairs, weaving among uneven rows of fold-able camp chairs, dodging the infinite wave of inebriated, aged, and/or uncoordinated as they crossed her path so that she could finally reach her destination. She still wasn't close enough for me to make out what she'd purchased. "There are food trucks down there," I pointed out to my husband, my heart ever-hopeful. Sydney's hat bobbed steadily along, triggering an accompanying growl from my tummy. "Falafel," I whispered. Bobbing...bobbing...and then suddenly, like a Northern Pike strike, she disappeared, pulled beneath the surface of this teeming sea of humanity.

I leaped up. "No..." I screamed, "not the food!" I was to Sydney's side in seconds as she lay buried beneath the rubble of a mountain of cheesy fries. I stared at her in horror. "I don't like cheesy fries," I said, disappointment dribbling from my dialogue, mirroring the cheese dribbling off of Sydney's pants. Much like a potato, Sydney appeared paralyzed, unable to move. "I think she's in some sort of spud-induced shock," I said, scooping grass, grease, and fries back onto the flimsy paper plate. I pulled my cheese-covered kid to her feet when suddenly, I heard a voice. "Mrs. Mosiman?" Sydney cringed. Of course we would be attending an event with tens of thousands of strangers and someone we know would have first row tickets to witness Sydney's show. "Tammy," I smiled, elated, embracing my friend. We exchanged pleasantries and then I hustled Sydney back to her seat. "How much did you spend," her father wondered as she tried to fold herself up in her chair. "Fourteen dollars," came the muffled reply. "Worth every penny," he grinned, opening up our cheese-covered bottle of water and taking a drink. "Delicious."

After the show, we made the long, dark walk back to our parked vehicle surrounded by hundreds of our closest friends (What else do you call people you've been shout-singing with for the last three hours?). "That was the best twenty-two dollars I have EVER spent in my whole life," I sighed happily, humming Jolene. "Well, actually you have to account for ticket and food which brings the total up to approximately thirty dollars, "my husband calculated. "So I'd say your friend actually got the best bargain," Brad grinned, watching Sydney suck cheese dejectedly off of her shirt cuff, "because she got two shows for the price of one." I switched over to the tune of Islands in the Stream, singing:

"French fries in the field, 

covered up in cheese, 

no one else to blame, 

yellow on her knees, 

should have ordered dogs, 

less chance for catastrophe, 

and we wouldn't be so hungry, right now...

I'm really really hungry...right now. 

Amy Mosiman: Kicka$$ Kickball Coach

"Do what she says," Vince muttered, his lips moving indecipherably, "or she'll take her kickball and go home." "Well...she just can't go and make up her own rules," Roy argued before I unceremoniously tossed him in the penalty box for a 2-minute "Arguing-with-the-referee" violation. "Uh, Mrs. Mosiman," Brett said, ignoring the dozens of laser beam stares directed at him from his fellow players, "this isn't hock-..." I swung to look at him and he froze. "Never mind," he stuttered apologetically.

Of all my life's dreams and aspirations, I never envisioned myself tackling the challenging role of becoming a kickball referee. But when 4th graders regularly come to blows just determining teams, let alone deciding who pitches, I felt the need to intervene. It was then when I was first exposed to the ugly underbelly world that is "kickball." "What do you mean you get people out by hitting them with the ball," I asked, horrified. "Don't throw the ball," became my daily mantra. I then made up a ton of false statistics about the greater probability of getting someone out on a tag rather than a throw and created a 45-minute power-point presentation to accompany my mathematical maleficence.

"Get back...get back," I yelled, tired of watching inadvertent homeruns off of over-throws. Thus I established my official 1st rule: The one-base advance off an over-throw rule. The children naturally embraced the impartiality of this adopted amendment. One player's loud reaction to my new rule led to the induction of the 2-minute penalty box (genius invention, by the way...thank you, NHL). An accidental (accidental?) shot to the face temporarily halted game-play while I checked on the health of one and raised holy he[[ with the other and thus was born another rule:  Hit to the face, advance an extra base. And the crowd went wild.

There was no stopping me now. Rule #3:  No back-to-back repeat pitchers. And then The Automatic Re-do which is put into practice when Mrs. Mosiman is temporarily distracted from game-play. "Wait, I didn't see what happened," I yelled, "My bad...we were discussing dandelions over here...Re-do!" Then there was the memorable occasion when a well-timed kick launched the ball between the parallel chains of an empty playground swing. I raised both arms over my head in excitement and yelled, "Score!" "It's not a field goal, Mrs. Mosiman," one player tried to explain, "this isn't foot-b..." I swung to look at him and he froze. "Never mind," he stuttered apologetically.

It's a lifestyle. For twenty minutes a day, kickball is the axis of my universe. It's changed me...to my very core. Where once I would have viewed the kicking of a ball into the uppermost branches of the tallest pine-tree on the playground as an annoying inconvenience, I now perceive athletic potential, waiting to be exploited...uh...I mean, lovingly developed as the annual 4th grade Kickball Tournament approached. Room 24 was ready.

"Wait...what was Rule #5," asked an opposing 4th grader from Room 25, scribbling madly during my pre-game lecture (pep-talk about sportsmanship...It's just a game...blah, blah,blah). "Automatic out if you hit Mrs. Mosiman with the ball," whispered another kid. "Has that happened," the player behind her asked. "We've tried," came the answer, accompanied by a disparaging sigh "but she's pretty quick." From the bleachers, a hand went up. "Yes," I said. "About Rule #5," a child destined to spend the entire game sitting in the 2-minute penalty box asked, "You do know, don't you, Mrs. Mosiman that this is kickball...not dodgeb..." I swung to look at him and he froze. "Never mind," he stuttered apologetically. "PLAY BALL!" I roared.

From beach to beige...Reconditioning Coleman and killing Brad

Ahhh...a church work day. My favorite. "Couldn't I just haiku about it instead," I whined (and then did...). I should point out, at this time, that every spiritual inventory that I have taken up to this point has indicated that my gifts include sarcasm and mockery rather than sweeping and mopping. I once had a ka-zillion year-old Scottish woman wrestle a mop out of my hands because I wasn't doing it right. Brad was disgusted last year, when, engaged in that pioneer-era activity of beating a rug, I instead broke the broom. But, team player that I was, I agreed to go ("Will there be snacks? I asked. "I think they're serving pizza for lunch," Brad answered. "Okay...I'm in," I consented).

I carried bookshelf units backwards down steep stairs. "Since when did "Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret become classified as a Christian book," I asked. "Did you know that Judy Blume is one of the most banned authors of all time," Sydney huffed as we negotiated a tight corner landing. "But she wrote Tales of a 4th Grade Nothing," I protested, puffing my way down the second flight. Jealousy fueled my remaining strength, providing the necessary adrenaline to deliver the bookcase unit and steal the book. "Becoming a banned author is on my bucket list," I whispered to Sydney as we headed back upstairs. "So is going to jail, apparently," she whispered back.

Taping was next. Syd and I watched enviously as a horde of teenagers (who must host a spin-off of "This Old House" called "This Old Church"), unraveled an entire roll of blue painter's tape along the length of the molding. "Mom, did you see that," Sydney said, wide-eyed as she carefully ripped off twelve to twenty-four inch sections for me to meticulously put in place. "Don't let them see you sweat," I consoled, surreptitiously wiping sweat from my own brow.

And what was Brad doing this whole time while Sydney and I were working ourselves to death? Nothing! That's what! Yeah...Mr. Mosiman decided to find a comfy, out-of-the-way place and loll away the day. "Uh...Dad," Sydney asked, squinting up at him at his perch atop a ten-foot ladder, "Do you realize that you're breaking at least four of the rules posted on the ladder?' "Drat the luck," I muttered, "another bucket list item that he beat me to!" As Brad worked to wrestle static-y plastic over the stained glass windows, I worked to wrestle the "good" scissors away from one of the project foremen. "Look, I'll leave my wedding ring as collateral," I negotiated, showing him how I had hacked away at the next piece of plastic, first with the blunt scissors and then finally with my teeth. Victorious, I carried the scissors around the church like the Olympic Torch before immediately cutting the next piece of plastic too short. And then the next piece. Using the handy blue tape, Syd and I "lengthened the hem" on the stainglass shrouds. Brad, happy with the ingenuity of his family, was proud to hang them up.

On tip-toe (breaking Rule #3) and reaching several feet over his head (Rule #11), Brad resembled one of the pole-cat riders from "Mad Max's" Fury Road. As I watched a parade of people push past the ladder where it was situated on a slant (Rule #7), balanced only by hymnals (That should have been Rule #19 but there wasn't any more room for rules left on the ladder's "List of Rules"), I realized my husband was actually more of a pinata. As people painted and attached plastic to the floor trim around him, I stopped reading the rules and started gripping the ladder, holding one rigid arm out like a defensive linebacker. "Great sports analogy, Mom!" Sydney said. "Thanks," I smiled humbly.

Sydney and I watched sadly as the blue color that inspired the painting of her second bedroom quickly disappeared thanks to an army of accomplished painters. Our pastor, who I think works part-time for a crayon company inventing new colors, decided on beige in order to make the stainglass windows "pop." "They're going to pop all right," I said, nudging Sydney, "when the next person who squeezes past that ladder causes your father to pop right through it." Unable to watch anymore, I closed my eyes and sent up a quick prayer. "Are you there, God? It's me, Amy."

Adventure on the screen and behind-the scenes

Sydney, my friend Joan and I LOVE going to the movies. And since our hometown movie theater has undergone some pretty epic renovations, we often get three options to choose from at a very economical price. I admit it...I was one of the original nay-sayers who proclaimed that "It couldn't be done." I lacked the vision (and dry-walling know-how) to anticipate three amazing theaters housed in the one theater that I frequented as a youth. Ah...those were the days. The sudden hush that fell right before the movie started, softened even more by the blanketed walls and then that "phsst" sound of a bottle cap and, on a rare occasion, the whonking roll of that same bottle as it made its way down the sloped aisle, accompanied by immature giggles.

That was then. This is now and I am MUCH more mature. We are frequent visitors to our little hometown cineplex and can now say that we have viewed movies in each of their three incredible theaters. We'd popped in a few months back to see "Zootopia" with every kid in Wyoming County standing in line...in front of us. "What'ya mean It's sold out," I said when we finally reached the ticket booth before turning to begin the bribe process. "Hey, little kid...want some candy," I whispered out of the corner of my mouth, Humphrey Bogart-style before we heard that theater management was considering calling the police based on an (unfounded) rumor of "Stranger-danger." Spotting several former students, I switched ticket-acquisition tactics to wheedling and threatening but, alas, to no avail. We compromised by agreeing to watch Gerald Butler in "London Has Fallen" rather than leave the theater as requested. "I didn't know this was a comedy," I whispered to Joan as I lost count of the number of people blown up. We stared at each other in the darkness as Gerald Butler heard the discouraging news that he would be battling more than one hundred terrorists. "Well..." he growled (muscles rippling), "then they should have brought more men." Joan, Sydney and I cracked up. Who needs "Zootopia" when SNL writers are contributing to action films?

Weeks later, we made it to the big time. The theater with the balcony. We raced for prime spots but, as they're spaced two seats to a row, parallel to the ground seating below, it felt more like we were getting ready to begin our journey to "Space Mountain." We procured comfy, spacious seats more in the middle and enjoyed "Captain America:  Civil War." "Why are we the only women in this theater," I'd asked, looking at several male theater-goers wearing sweatpants up past their navels almost to their nostrils (Not judging). I'm not a huge action fan...nor a comic-book-brought-to-cinematic-life fan...but watching Chris Evans secure an in-flight helicopter with his more than manly muscles more than made the ticket worthwhile.

I stopped to use the restroom after the movie ended and stepped immediately back into my youth. The swinging bar saloon doors were like the magic wardrobe leading to Narnia. I shimmied sideways into the stall and grimaced as my knees knocked against the stall door (as I checked my nails and updated my "friends" list on Facebook...Isn't that what everyone does in the bathroom?), preventing me from locking it. To resume a standing position, I had to brace my hands against the sides and tap my years of parkour experience to American Ninja my way up the floating wall. It was like I was thirteen again. I approached the sink, hope fluttering in my chest. Could it be...would it be possible? I turned on the faucet and howled as the water pressure blasted my skin like thousands of little shards of glass. Yes! I was still at home!

"Oh, for Pete's sake, Amy," Joan lectured. "Years of renovation have resulted in an amazing three-house movie theater in the heart of Wyoming County and you DARE to complain that they do not yet have a five-star restroom!" "I'm not complaining," I responded, "I love our theater!" However, I am currently authoring a book-in-progress highlighting the best bathrooms of Wyoming County. So far, I'm leaning toward Stuff-mart (the back bathroom...not the one located near Metro-way) although several friends are arguing for the local doughnut shop. Maybe, to address bathrooms prior to a re-model, I'll include a section in my book entitled "Adventure Bathrooms." I could include tips to successfully reach the Warped Wall portion of the bathroom experience.

The perks of being "that class"

"Gary! Gary! Take our picture," I called, waving to the 4th grader who was carefully making his way down the stairwell as our boat rocked with the waves of the mighty Niagara. The next day, that same child would be wondering why there was no picture of HIM included in the class field-trip slideshow. "Don't be so selfish, Gary" I snapped, "the world doesn't revolve around you, y'know." I turned to face the class, "Who does it revolve around, children," I asked. "Mrs. Mosiman," they chanted dutifully.

This year's annual trip to experience the Maid-of-the-Mist and tour historic Old Fort Niagara was wonderful. Not because fellow teacher Geri was standing at the boat rail when a gigantic tsunami-sized wave rolled up and soaked her. Not because my lunch included a delicious Bruschetta sandwich from the D & R Depot in LeRoy. Not because Sydney had done up my hair in cute braided pigtails. Not because of the amazing weather.

No. This year...the trip was especially wonderful because, unbeknownst to me and my fellow chaperones, we were known as "that class" as we happily traipsed along, seeing new sights and absorbing new knowledge. I first became alerted to our (undeserved) reputation shortly after our tour had begun. "Are you aware that the other tour guides are talking about you," a fellow teacher whispered in passing. I squared my shoulders and took a breath, readying myself for the compliment that was surely headed my way. "They're saying," she continued, "that their tours will NOT be conducting themselves like that class." That class? That class as in...my class? I looked at my sweet band of little cherubs, sitting happily on a little hill listening to Tourguide Douglas, in complete confusion. "But what are we doing wrong," I asked. She looked up at me as I stood on that little hill. "You're suppose to stay OFF the earthworks." "What earthworks," I said, the horror of realization sinking in as I gazed upon the hill upon which I stood. "But there are no signs..." I said defensively before spotting signs posted at regular intervals along the earthworks. Oh no. We'd done all but gather around one of the signs to take a group picture.

Okay. Re-set. Now that I knew that Tourguide Douglas was too nice to tell us when we were (unknowingly) committing infractions, I would be extra vigilant to earn back the respect we so obviously deserved. And we were doing so well. Asking insightful questions. Answering questions to prove that we were mostly not a bunch of doofuses. Alright. A few doofus answers slipped through...but only to prove we're human. "What was the main strategic route of transportation," Tourguide Douglas asked my cherubs, Lake Ontario to his back. "Salted pork," yelled my little Robbie enthusiastically while I moaned and promised to pay my chaperones back the tax dollars that went into my salary this year. "That was an interesting answer," one of my dads commented as he walked with me. "It was a conditioned response," I explained. "Like how in Sunday School, all answers end in Jesus." Another teacher was motioning to me so I walked over to her.

"Did you know that you're not suppose to touch the carved-out canoe," she asked. Oh no. I glanced at the small sliver in my finger that I'd just gotten from touching the carved-out canoe. I could just imagine what all the other tourguides were saying. "We're not going to touch the carved-out canoe like that class." We'd done all but shove all of us into the carved-out canoe for a group picture. I glared at Tourguide Douglas. How are we suppose to know we're doing anything wrong. It's not like there was a sign or anythi..." I glanced over again at the carved-out canoe. Oh.

It was time for a "If you can't beat 'em...join 'em" attitude. It was too late to outfit my kids in leather jackets or roll a deck of cards up into the left sleeve of their white t-shirts. I could try to prompt them to answer to the question: "What are you rebelling against?" with "What've ya got" but I'm afraid Robbie will answer with "Salted pork" and ruin our street cred. It was time to embrace our unintentional reputation and just enjoy the rest of our tour.

And enjoy it we did. "Wait...we didn't get to see that," another tour's student was heard saying on the bus to my kids as they described the giant flag housed in the museum. I'd asked Tourguide Douglas specifically to see it. "We're tired," my kids had complained, "we don't care about an old flag." "It's air-conditioned in there," I responded. "Oh! Where's that flag again," asked my newly patriotic pupils. "Wait...we didn't get to eat anything out of the garden," another child who wasn't a member of that class complained. We had inadvertently stumbled onto the edible vegetation portion of the tour. It was interesting to me that the same group of kids who had passionately spat their sample of lovage onto the ground hours ago were now making that same herb out to be the Cool Ranch Doritos of its time. "What topographical map? I didn't see a reproduction of the fort made out of toothpicks," another indignant voice wailed from the back of the bus. No...only that class did.

The Great Rhubarb Robbery

 "What's that guy doing," Sydney asked, looking intently out our darkened window. THAT immediately captured her father's attention. "Is he in the rhubarb patch," Brad growled, springing into action. Shirtless, shoeless...he raced out, into the night with Sydney on his heels. "It's not like it's Mr. McGregor's garden out there," I mumbled and went to bed.

"First of all...I put on a shirt AND shoes before I went outside,"Brad said, by way of clarifying my blog. "And two, it wasn't about the rhubarb. There was a stranger, uninvited, on our property after dark."

"First of all," I said, wrestling control of my blog back, "it's my blog. If you want a say in my story, start your own blog. And two, did you or did you not call out to Peter Rabbit, What are you doing in my rhubarb patch? like you were Papa Bear? 

Brad sighed. "You and I both know that we transplanted that rhubarb from Gramps's garden."

I looked at my husband sternly. "So it IS about the rhubarb." 

Dirt tire tracks leading away from the
scene of the crime.

Another sigh before a rare admission. "Yeah."

Determined to rescue his rhubarb, Brad fearlessly approached the vegetative villain who left his leafy loot, sprang into his car and raced away. Mourning his fallen friends, Brad gathered the slaughtered stalks in his arms and returned to the house. He awoke me with the news of our loss. 

To be fair, the Mosimans are rather sentimental about some of our plants. We treasure Gramps's rhubarb. We also have a jade plant that I was awarded upon receiving tenure and the entire family is convinced that, if the thing dies, I'll lose my job.

The repercussions of this incident are still rippling through the family. First of course, was denial. "People warn you," Sydney admitted, shivering, "but I honestly never thought it would happen to me." Brad, however, isn't interested in answers. "Oh...I have THE answer," he spat out, calculating the voltage of wire necessary to perhaps cripple but not kill future breaches. Apparently the critter cam will also be relocated as well. 

Sydney and Brad are also busy listing possible suspects, many of whom sport a Snidley Whiplash mustache.  "Perhaps we could transplant the rhubarb to a less prominent location," I suggested. My family was outraged at my proposal. "This is America," Brad declared, "my rhubarb won't run."

"First of all," Brad said, "I NEVER said that..."