Shanna's Walking Circus

Just when you think that you've run out of things to blog about...

Shopping on a Friday leading into the 4th of July week-end wasn't the greatest idea in the world. The only thing that would make that idea even worse was if I had decided to go shopping on a Friday leading into the 4th of July week-end with five children.

I'd been waiting, more-or-less, patiently at the service desk at Stuf-Mart for about twenty minutes when my friend Shanna came rolling up with 4/5s of her brood in tow. As we chatted, she carefully navigated her over-flowing cart around and then, in front, of me. "Are you budging," I asked with the carefully veiled hostility of one who has been waiting, more or less patiently at the service desk at Stuf-Mart. Shanna feigned surprise. "Oh! I thought you were shopping!" she exclaimed.

Yeah. A LOT of people shop at the service desk...SHANNA.

Attempting to apply my self-defined "Humanitarian of the World" status to real-world situations, I loudly announced my intention to allow this mother of five to go ahead of me. Then I watched as she tried to be compensated for a fifty-cent Bulls-eye coupon. "Did you budge in front me to redeem a competitor's fifty-cent coupon?" I asked indignantly. "I thought Stuf-Mart accepted ALL coupons," she answered, eyes wide. I squinted at her. This woman was shrewd. "And that's not just a fifty-cent coupon," Shanna whispered as she rolled by, "that's coffee money."

Her physical disappearance was immediately replaced with her technological presence as she immediately texted about how maybe exiting through the "Enter" door was also a poor decision...detrimental to the elderly gentleman who fell victim to Shanna's grocery cart hit-and-run.

Which is why I entered Gyroscopes with a wary eye. I successfully procured my produce, selected my cereal, and grabbed most of my groceries without incident when I heard a ruckus. I sighed as I peeked around the corner. One fifth of Shanna's brood spotted me. "What are YOU doing here," he asked. I frowned at him. "And here I thought you were the bright one," I growled. We stared at one another for a long moment before he tipped back his maned head and roared. I bypassed the giggling boy to discover his mother kneeling before the discount shrine of endcapped goods. "I just wanted to touch one," she admitted as we righted the forty or so colorful plastic tumblers she'd toppled. "I guess the Keep Your Hands to Yourself Rule only applies to children," I muttered, hefting myself back up to my feet. "Can I follow you around all day," I asked Shanna, now realizing the unlimited supply of blog posts that effortlessly materialize around her. She readily agreed. "The best writing material comes when I go out with all five kids," she said, "It's like a walking circus."I laughed as I went on my way, not having the heart to tell her that every debacle I'd witnessed today had not been kid-induced. Shanna, full of sunshine, does it all. Ringleader...acrobat...magician...lion-tamer...and yes, sometimes...even the clown!

2017 Graduation: Key Note Speaker-Amy Mosiman (Are you kidding me?)

 Rarely does our teacher's union president darken my door for a GOOD reason. I spotted him at the threshold in the middle of an ELA lesson. It was a mixed grammar and vocabulary instruction. "Forget to capitalize the beginning of a sentence again," I threatened my 4th graders, "and I will begin decapitating toes."  I directed their attention to Jeff. Their welcoming applause threw him off (or maybe it was the future fate of 4th grade toes that shook him up a bit) as he approached me. My normally chatty class was shockingly quiet. I'm high school basketball player tall. Jeff is NBA sports-star tall. They were very impressed. And curious. So was I.

It was that old E.F. Hutton commercial all over again. I had directed my students to an independent activity but all ears were trained to Jeff. "The senior class has requested that you be their commencement speaker," he said. I stared at him, baffled. My 4th graders stared at him, baffled. "You can say no," he added, "Others have." I breathed a sigh of relief. So I was just a relief pitcher...called up because of an elbow cramp. The seniors didn't actually WANT me to do it...I was just a back-up. Like using margarine on your popcorn when you were out of butter.  "No...you were their first choice," he assured me. Oh.

I had a month to prepare. I needed at least six months after dealing with the emotional bruising of having at least a dozen people ask, "Why would they choose you?" "Maybe start with an outline," my husband prompted. I instead dug out everything I had from my former 6th grade class. Their poetry. Pictures. Letters. Gifts. Referrals. I sat among this pile, wallowing in self-pity, willing the words to infuse into my heart and brain like smoke from a tribal fire. "Is the outline done," Brad asked at the end of Week 1. I glared at him. "Why don't we get you a new outfit for your speech," he suggested. That little shopping excursion marked the second time I would cry during the writing process.

1.  Pre-write
2.  Cry
3.  Rough draft
4.  Cry
5.  Revision
6. Cry
7.  Edit
8.  Cry
9.  Edit again
10.  Cry. Lose sleep. Over-eat.
11. Edit some more
12.  Final draft.
13. Vomit

"Too short." "Too long." "Too flowery." "Too graphic."

"Are we talking about your speech or your outfit," Brad grumbled as we exited the sixth store. "Let's just go with dress pants," he sighed, thrusting a pair at me. I walked out of the dressing room, empty-handed. "What was wrong with those," my exasperated husband asked. "You could see my panty-line," I explained. "How can I give a speech to over 700 people when 85 seniors will be sitting behind me, looking at my panty-line?" "It's going to be tough to give a speech when you haven't actually written a speech," he snapped back, "Who's going to care about your panty-line if there isn't a speech?"

The best graduation speech that I ever heard was from my daughter Savannah's friend Sam who wove stories about the class into her message. Drawing on that, I typed...cried...typed some more...hyperventilated...type-type-type, whimper-whine-wail, type-type-type...

"It's fourteen pages long," I told Brad.

Horror-struck, he asked, "How long does it take to deliver?"

 "Fourteen minutes."

"How long is it SUPPOSE to be?"

"Five to eight minutes," I answered, resorting to Step 8 in the writing process.

So long, meaningful quote from Billy Graham. Farewell to Bernie, the hardest-working girl in the 6th grade. Adieu to sweet Jessica and her meticulously-crafted book report dioramas. How painful to cut Casey and her shocked aversion to Boston traffic or Emma's (warped) memory of my swiping her clicky pen and bashing it against the classroom wall (I would NEVER do that!). I played tug-of-war for days about Dylan, finally refusing to give up my chance of practicing my Irish accent in front of a captive audience.

By the day of graduation, I was down to ten pages.

I showed up for practice at 9 that morning. "You don't need to be here, Mrs. Mosiman," the high school principal reassured me. "I have some things that I need the kids to do," I answered. I saw concern flash in his eyes. There was a reason that elementary teachers aren't typically chosen to deliver the commencement address.

I began fasting and dehydrating at 3 pm.

Bumbling my box of props, I climbed the stage steps at 7:10 and approached the podium, blew a bubble, and began my speech...not to over seven hundred people that I barely knew but to eighty...that I knew and loved. Together we snapped the Addams Family theme song, Nathan erupted from his seat to declare himself the God of War, Maggie and Jacob graciously read their poems from the 6th grade, I tossed some good-natured abuse at those who I knew would take it well, gave a half-eaten jar of organic peanut-butter to Matthew, and told story after story about how special they were. My speech. Their stories. My love. My words would never be enough.

We have the disposal of hygiene items down to a T

Can you find the three things in this picture
that begin with the letter "T"?

Contrary to popular belief, I am rarely on a quest for the next great adventure. Believe it or not, I spend the bulk of my time holed up in my little classroom, minding my own business. And time and time again, unwelcomed and unsolicited adventure comes and finds me. And sometimes in the most innocent of disguises. "I'll have to call you back," I told my husband, interrupting our daily prayer meeting phone conversation, "Rachel just walked in." I always made time for my 4th grade colleague, a woman who epitomized professionalism and compassion.

"Amy, can you come with me? We need your help." I stood up immediately and quickly joined her at the door. "Is something wrong," I asked, worriedly, "What can I do?" "The situation calls for your specific area of expertise," she answered. My mind whirled. Did someone bring in a dachshund puppy that needed petting? Were they having trouble finding just the perfect clip art to accompany a boring document? Could they not reach an item on a high shelf? Rachel and I walked down the hall to where a crowd was gathered. There on the floor, repelling both man and beast (I was devastated to see that there was NOT a dachshund puppy available) lay two items of personal hygiene for areas both north and south of the Mason-Dixon line. "Ugh," I said, grabbing the baby wipe Rachel was holding, swooping the offending objects up, before disappearing into the nearest bathroom for disposal and a thorough round of hand-washing. "That was amazing," I heard a hushed whisper from the hallway. "She didn't even hesitate," another said in quiet wonderment. "Where did she go," another asked, "She simply vanished." Apparently I had attained Super-Hero-like status with my ability to stomach gross garbage.

"You do have a reputation," my friend Tyler said when he finally came forward to admit that he'd set up the whole thing. The items is question had already been taken care of but Tyler decided it would make a great practical joke (See Click on Blog Link #1 and Click on Blog Link #2). I was not amused. "Those incidences were spontaneously genuine," I told him, "not a manufactured hoax so that I could be manipulated like a trained pony." I vowed to never speak to him again. "Never," he asked. I amended my vow to fifteen hours. We both set our watches and he exited the room.

Rachel came in later to apologize for her dastardly role in the deception. I waved her admission away. She had obviously been unwittingly duped by an evil villain. But I admitted to being puzzled by one thing. "What were those two items doing together," I wondered. Rachel and I thought for a moment. "They both, sort of, have something to do with flossing," I mused. A light-bulb was suddenly illuminated over Rachel's head. "I know," said my 4th grade teacher friend, "They both start with the letter 'T'!"

Why George should have been cast in "Good Will Hunting" or How to become friends with your custodian even when he's terrifying

To lead a happy, carefree life of teaching, one must IMMEDIATELY get on the good side of the custodial staff. And believe me...I've tried. But George continues to elude me...staunchly refusing to fall for my winning ways. He's a bit intimidating. Equal parts Gandalf the Grey, Ted Kacznski, and a Santa who has been through a pretty rough Christmas, George does not suffer small-talk. And I am the Queen of Small-Talk!

But there is something magical about George. Who wouldn't adore a man who adorns his cleaning cart each year with a hood ornament? One year, I'd tossed the ratty old Halloween crow that I'd used for my Edgar Allen Poe unit away. The next day...it had been refurbished and was guiding George's cart like a rancid replica of Rudolph. This year, I had to tragically retire my sling-shot pig because its rubber-band arms dry-rotted. Again, George swooped in to save the day. Outfitted with a little cape, the pig has been cast in a new role.

See what I mean? George has a fun, whimsical side! And while he does his best to avoid me, he is inevitably drawn into my little life dramas. He's had to comfort me when it turned out that I was an utter failure as a baby chick mom. He made himself intimidatingly present when a student's dad dropped by my classroom, way after teaching hours. Before the door even had time to close behind the parent, George was propping it open with a door stop. "I'm cleaning right across the hall," he said gruffly. My uninvited guest was gone in mere minutes. I'd even catch George glancing out the window when I'd leave after dark to make sure I got to my truck alright. "I was just hoping that if there was a hit-and-run in the parking lot, I'd get to witness it," George told me. He's such a sweetheart.

 This morning I walked into my classroom and went about my normal routine until I noticed that I'd forgotten to fill out my "Morning Work" agenda last night. Fortunately, George stepped in to help me out. My 4th graders stared, horrified at the "Good Will Hunting"-style equation written out for them. "George must have a lot of confidence in your math skills," I laughed. And then, to my amazement, dry erase boards were whipped out and students began trying to solve the problem. I solved it on a calculator and let each mathematician know if their solution was correct or not. Two students successfully cracked George's code!

Later, when some 7th and 8th grade students popped in for a visit, they, too, noticed the challenging (Some would say smart-a$$) math problem on the board. "That's not the correct answer," I was told, "because they didn't follow the order of operations." I sighed. I could have cared less about the order of operations because I was just tickled that I had eager students who wanted to solve George's crazy equation. But never mind...here we go again. My older scholars also got busy calculating and soon produced the "correct" answer.

So even when he acts like he's not interesting in building fun friendships with those around him, George cannot help himself. He is just so utterly lovable and kind. My yard-sale goal this summer is to locate a Gandalf the Grey figurine for his cleaning cart next year.

Father's Day Fail: Who doesn't love a fist-bumping unicorn?

 I blame the genetics. Sydney has inherited her horrific gift-giving skills from me. It can all be traced back to the Spanish-language Pokemon cards that I bought for the twins over a decade ago. Sydney's only job...her ONLY job was to pick out a Father's Day card for Grandpa. "What is taking her so long," Savannah muttered as we waited for Sydney to emerge with the card and some Oliver's chocolate for her dad. Unable to stand it, Savannah stormed into the chocolate shop after her sister...just in time to stop her from buying Brad a chocolate guitar. No...Brad does not play the guitar. And while he is familiar with the great works of Hendrix and Santana...I don't think he's exactly what you would call a guitar enthusiast. So...why the guitar? WE DON'T KNOW! Thanks to Savannah's intervention, Brad instead ended up with a chocolate fish lollipop and a box of chocolate-covered pecan clusters. If only we had been able to save her grandfather...

"Where's the card for Grandpa," I asked as the girls returned to the car. Savannah, disgusted, huffed and slumped down in her seat. "They didn't have any Father's Day cards," Sydney explained. It was the day BEFORE Father's Day. How could that be? Everyone knows that Father's Day is to Mother's Day as Ground Hog's Day is to Christmas. How could they be sold out...unless they didn't even bother to stock them in the first place!?! Poor dads.

On to a drugstore. And, yes. We let Sydney go in, unchaperoned. BIG mistake. She came out smiling and proudly handed me the card. "No Father's Day cards there either," she reported, "so I improvised." "What the h--e-double-hockey-sticks is this?" A dragon fist-bumping a unicorn? A whimsical jackalope? And wait. What's this? Was Grandpa's card bedazzled? "Yeah...that just screams Grandpa," Savannah said sarcastically, looking over my shoulder at the dragon pushing his little unicorn friend on a swing. "We can't give him this," I told Sydney. I glanced at the clock. We were already late. My parents HATE when I'm late. I grabbed a pen.

Time to make lemonade out of lemons. Or assign blame where blame is due. "Sydney selected your Father's Day card," I wrote, "Please remember that she graduated 4th in her class. She spent $5 on this ridiculous card--obviously reflecting her great love for you. Maybe the sparkly jewel is a real diamond." Okay. I felt a little better. "We love you despite the card," I finished with a flourish. Sydney pouted. "I think the card is cute."

We arrived only eight minutes late which is some sort of record for us. We waited with bated breath as Grandpa opened his card. He inspected the cover with carefully concealed confusion before turning to read the message. Looking up, he smiled broadly at his granddaughter before offering her a warm side hug. "I think it's cute," he told her. Vindicated, she glared at us. "Grandpa is lying to you," we hissed at her while Grandma rushed to place the card in a prominent place. Who needs hammers, ducks, and fishing scenes? What says "Happy Father's Day better than fantasy creatures?!?

The History of Oven Mitts: A Field Trip Has Never Been So Fun!

 "I thought he did a good job," my friend Geri said. I stared at her. Did she attend the same historical tour that I did? "Ger...we stood outside the gates to the fort FOREVER talking about Fort George. Most of the students thought our guide's name was George. One kid was confused because he thought he was going get to to see Old Fort Niagara. You never mentioned that we were going to see Fort George, he said accusingly. We're not, Cherub, I answered with my usual brand of love and patience, Fort George is across the river on the Canadian side. Now...shut up and listen to George talk about recently fired eighteen pound cannon balls and oven mitts.


I had long since given up listening to George and was now playing a fun game with the adults at the back of the group. In between moving to the side to let other lucky groups actually ENTER the fort, we took pretend shots every time my friend Shanna yawned. We decided that if she made it past ten, we were going to hijack

the bus and head over to the nearest watering hole and forego living history altogether.

Our bus driver, Deb ditched me after the first time that I was reprimanded. Fingers to her lips, Geri shushed me as I learned how to craft my own barrel. My daughter, Sydney, a seasoned veteran of my getting yelled at, stuck staunchly by my side until she realized that we weren't going to see the turret tower and then went and embarked on her own personal tour.

George intervened some time later. "If I could get the attention of those in the back..." I nudged my friend Val who was clearly distracted ("Yeah...by you," she hissed.). In spite of Val's childish behavior, we made it in time for the cannon demonstration. "Am I wrong or does that guy have extraordinary calves," I whispered to Sydney as our speaker pranced about in period-appropriate pants. He also had extraordinary hearing because his glare suddenly zeroed in on me while Sydney ducked behind me. So much for standing staunchly by my side. "If YOU would listen..." he emphasized with a final withering glare in my direction before pivoting around and flexing his calf muscles at us, "We will now discharge the cannon." I glanced around. My chaperoning moms were holding cell phone cameras to the ready. But Calves still had a lot of explaining to do about how the vent holder touches the hole (not the one in the front of the cannon) so that no air escapes. The Vent Holder would also need an oven mitt because apparently a cannon can get quite hot. My heart went out to my poor moms...outstretched arms just a-quivering as they waited for the cannon to discharge so that they could watch it later...for hours and hours of fun-filled, educationally-rich viewing pleasure. I would occasionally photo-bomb their frames to lighten their tension and further annoy Calves. "We heart history! Cannons are da bomb!" I narrated helpfully.

It just occurred to me. I was helpful the ENTIRE trip. As we exited our ride on The Maid of the Mist that morning, I followed our group up towards the elevators. "Amy," my friend and responsible chaperone Sarah whispered, "Would you please let Jason know that I'm stopping to use the..." (She mouthed the word "restroom" to me.) "Of course," I replied discretely, scanning the line of a hundred people or so separating me from Jason. I cupped my hands to my mouth and bellowed, "Jason, Sarah is stopping to use the bathroom. I think she has to pee!" "Thank you, Amy," she said, "That was very helpful." SEE!?!?!? Helpful!

We learned a lot. It turns out that oven mitts were very useful during the 1700s. But...after an exhausting day, we finally returned to the bus. Room 24 boasts a bunch of champion sleepers. I am considering adding this valuable trait to the Comments section of their report cards. Suzy Q has shown a great deal of improvement in math and sleeps like a log. The ride home was blissfully quiet. As we pulled into the bus loop, I thanked our group for an outstanding day. Our students had acted as fine representatives of our school. "I know it's been a good day," I told them as they exited the bus to go home, "when I get yelled at more than you." "Bye Mrs. Mosiman!" cheerful little voices cried out as they left. "Bye Cherubs," I yelled back, "Be ready for tomorrow's history test on the importance of oven mitts and their application in battle-ready situations."

Music to my ears: We bought a trailer to haul stuff

 "Is that trailer for sale," Brad asked as we walked out of breakfast on our way to church. He ignored me as I started singing the Roger Miller hit. We went over to inspect it. I felt relatively safe until he said, "Wait here. I'm going to grab my measuring tape." Oh no.

I considered raising my hand during the Cares & Concerns portion of church service but didn't think Brad (or the pastor) would appreciate enlisting the powerful prayers of the congregation AGAINST the possible purchase of a trailer. I settled for a solitary yet sincere, heartfelt prayer. Little did I know that Brad was working in direct competition against me.

"Imagine all of the things that we could haul in it", Brad said wistfully. "Like what," I asked, bracing myself for the blow. "Lumber..." (which equals WORK)..."Dirt..." (WORK)...the list went on and on. (WORK WORK WORK. Great. Now I was singing Rihanna. I do have a vast repertoire of musical interests.) "Plus we can haul pellets," Brad remarked with great enthusiasm. "We have a truck for that," I replied with very little enthusiasm. He didn't notice.

A day later...

"Guess what we own!" Brad shared over the phone. Oh no. I went with him to pick it up. Never saw this one coming:  Amy Mosiman: Trailer owner. I fought to see the bright side of things. "Well...now we can bring two tons of pellets home in one trip," I tried, wondering when in my life did I start even considering THIS to be "the bright side." "No," my husband corrected, "We'd just use the trailer." "But we have a truck," I said. My truck can do ANYTHING. "We want to save wear on the truck," Brad soothed. I wasn't soothed. "The only bad thing," he began, (ONLY?!?! I thought to myself.) "is that we'll have to load the pellets by hand onto the trailer and then unload them when we get home instead of dropping a pallet like we used to do with the truck." WAIT! WHAT?!?! So instead of just unloading (which is not just a JUST, by the way) once, I'm loading and UNLOADING?!? Times three!?!? Isn't a trailer suppose to make life easier and more convenient? I sulked all the way home. Brad, basking in his trailer-glow, didn't even notice.

Naturally, we had to haul something right away. "The ball that's on it right now is too small," Brad observed, backing our 4-wheeler up to it, "We'll need a bigger ball." I heroically refrained from commenting. "You'll have to stand on the hitch as we move it to the back of the house." WAIT! WHAT?!?! "Why is this necessary," I asked, stepping tentatively onto the bar. "So the trailer doesn't pop off. We wouldn't want to damage it." So I guess we don't care about damaging our wife, I thought as I precariously balanced myself along a three inch-wide metal bar, gracefully riding across my lawn, my back hunched like a camel, waving to
our neighbors.

Now it was time to secure our load with rope. Brad has saved every scrap of rope that we have encountered over our almost (but not quite yet...) 29 years of marriage. He secured his end before handing the coil of rope over to me. The only song that came to me was "Tie a Yellow Ribbon 'Round That Old Oak Tree," but it was WAY to upbeat for how I was feeling. I flung it back at him. He tightened it to the point where it snapped. Is that a metaphor? I sighed. Dry rot. Of course. "Maybe it's just the end," he mused. We tried again. SNAP. Sigh. One more time. SNAP. SCREAM. "Hold on...I'll get another rope," he assured me. Imagine all the things we could do with that rope, I thought to myself, whistling the Mockingjay tune, "The Hanging Tree."

Sarah is NOT just another brick in the wall

Worried that Sarah's son Will might grow up only
knowing the theme song to Dog Patrol, I bought him
a Pink Floyd t-shirt.

I've said it before, but eating out with my friend Sarah is a futile exercise in patience and self-restraint. Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally has NOTHING on Sarah when it comes to being particularly concise when she orders. I tip the waitress BEFORE the food comes to try and lower the risk of contaminants. It's not just dressing to the side. Oh no...

• meat shaved not sliced, 
• onions chopped, not diced, 
• fondue fork dipped once, not twice

Okay...I might be exaggerating (a little). But one thing is for sure, it is never boring when we go out to eat. 

The last time we went out, our waitress approached, sporting a trendy little tee which read, "How can you have any pudding if you don't eat your meat?" I laughed. "Great shirt," I complimented. Sarah furrowed her brow. She is an awesome brow furrow-er. "I don't get it," she admitted. I'm a little embarrassed that I dog-piled on her because, after all, this is a girl who can bust a rhyme to the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air at the drop of a cocked-to-the-side baseball cap. But still...

The waitress and I stared at Sarah...stunned. "You HAVE to know this," I told her. Back in my day, every composition notebook cover was transformed into brick walls because of this band. Oh. Maybe it was a generational gap problem. But no...my very cool waitress with semi-appropriate tattoos and questionably-placed piercings knew it. "I'll give you a hint," I prompted, "maybe the pressure of ordering a meal custom-designed to your very specific needs momentarily pushed out more important information like 1980's rock band recognition." Her expression evolved from furrow to frown. "Okay..." I encouraged, "Here goes. Finish this line: We're just two lost souls..." The waitress and I waited. Seconds ticked painfully by. "In need of Jesus?" Sarah offered. I sighed, turning to the waitress. "We're just two lost souls," I sang. "Swimming in a fish bowl," she sang back. "Year after year," we harmonized together while the restaurant broke into spontaneous applause and Sarah asked if she could place her order, please. "Half of that was right," Sarah said, editing my blog.

Mid-way through Sarah's made-to-order meal, she was struck with a revelation. "Is Pink Floyd the band with the rainbow going through a triangle?" "No," I said with exasperation at this ridiculous notion, "You're thinking of Led Zeppelin." Obviously, I was the expert here so she let the matter drop until she excused herself to go powder her nose. She was back in an instant and dragging me from my chair. "You have to see this," she crowed victoriously. Yup. There in the dim hallway leading to the restrooms was a Pink Floyd reproduction cover featuring a rainbow going through a triangle. "Where is that waitress," Sarah grumbled, taking a lap of the restaurant so she could show her too. "Your quality of always having to be right is NOT attractive," I told her when we returned to our seats. "You should really work on that." "Maybe you could offer lessons," she smiled, ordering us dessert. "Two spoons, please. And whipped cream to the side."

Who-oo's Mary Jemison: It's against the law to kill an owl

Ahhh...June. The winding down of the school year. Full of introspective thoughts. Poignant reflections. Wistful recollections of the year in review. The eager embrace of summer with months of nothing to do but sleep in, catch up on Netflix, and let loose by going potty WHENEVER the urge strikes.Wait...WHAT?!?!? No! June. Month six of Satan's school calendar. "Mrs. Mosiman...I couldn't do my homework because I had baseball." "Mrs. Mosiman, please fill out these fifty color-coded sheets in triplicate and have them to my desk by Friday." "Mrs. Mosiman, the 2017 office supply catalog, edition #6, that you signed out in February is missing. Return it or you'll be blacklisted." "Mrs. Mosiman, have you logged in your class's county fair art submissions yet?"

Tomorrow, we begin the process of fabric painting our Field Day t-shirts in between committing the Star Spangled Banner in sign language to memory. We're still learning decimals which one of my honeys pronounced "deka-mals" today. And I'm ready to throw the thousands of fidget spinners that occupy my room out the window. They light up now and some can even feature a blue-tooth speaker. What a marvelous tool to promote focus and learning!

So...I'm a little tired. Which means that the appearance of a little owl outside my bedroom at 3 am was not the magical experience that some would lead you to believe. "Who-oo...who-oo!" I lay there, sweltering, in the flannel sheets that I've neglected to change because I had baseball. I mean color-coded sheets...textbook inventory...fair admission tickets...wait...what?...Father's Day is approaching? What am I going to do for Father's Day? Blink, blink. I stared at the dark ceiling. "Who-oo. Who-oo." And then suddenly..."Bark! Bark!" The dachshund addressed the owl issue in no uncertain terms. "Fly off, dummkopf!" "Who! Who!" "Bark! Bark!" I buried my sweaty head beneath my pillow. "Who! Who!" "Bark! Bark" "Who! Who!" "Bark! Bark" "Who! Who!" "Bark! Bark" "SHUT UP!" I shrieked, throwing my pillow at the dog. "Who! Who!" "Bark! Bark" "Who! Who!" "Bark! Bark" "Who! Who!" "Bark! Bark" "SHUT UP!" "SHUT UP!" "SHUT UP!" I lurched off the mattress to go to the potty, forgetting (for the thousandth time) about the up-turned wooden crate set up to allow the Rottweiler easy access to the bed and slammed my toes into the side. Not proud of the words that emerged as a result of that little incident.

I sat in the bathroom, crying at this point. I'd hit the June Wall. My husband, who had been shockingly silent up to this point, asked if I was alright. It was then that I was struck with some insight. "At least we have toilet paper," I sniffled, "poor Mary Jemison didn't even have toilet paper." For my readers beyond the scope of Wyoming County historical lore, Mary Jemison was a little girl who was captured during the period around the French and Indian War and traversed, through great hardship, on foot and by canoe, from Gettysburg to our own Letchworth State Park. She built her own cabin by hand. One of her sons turned out to be a murderous ass (in the vein of Cain and Able). Brad was understandably confused. "Look," I said, underscoring my point by turning on the faucet to wash my hands, "poor Mary Jemison didn't have indoor plumbing. She'd be grateful if the only thing she had to worry about was color-coded sheets and coming up with an alliterative team name for Field Days." Please note that my entire bathroom conversation was accompanied by the background sounds of "Who! Who!" "Bark! Bark" "Who! Who!" "Bark! Bark" "Who! Who!" "Bark! Bark." "Mary Jemison would want you to come back to bed," Brad said. "She had to sleep on the ground, poor thing," I hiccuped sleepily, crawling back between the hot-as-he// flannel sheets. "Who slept on the ground," Sydney asked from the bathroom, awakened by the noise. "SHUT UP!" "SHUT UP!" "SHUT UP!" I screamed.

Interpretive Art: Dirty pictures or dirty minds? You be the judge

 "Do you want to drive into Manhattan and go to the Met today," Savannah asked. Oh my goodness. Would I EVER just get to curl up on her cramped couch and watch television! Yesterday she made me walk two miles and appreciate nature. Today, she wants to immerse me in art. I sighed as I slowly unfurled myself from her teeny-tiny love-seat. "We're going?" Sydney muttered, her head still buried in her pillow. "It's either the Met or Savannah's submarine museum," I whispered at her to which she frantically scrambled to her feet, stumbled down two flights of stairs, dove into the backseat of her sister's car, and immediately fell asleep for the two hour drive into the city.

Savannah carefully mapped out our abbreviated route of the Metropolitan Museum of Art because I tend to get a tad overwhelmed in there. We got lost in Asian art on our way to George Washington Crossing the Delaware. "You're oddly quiet," Savannah observed as I have a talent for locating a phallic rendering in practically every piece of art created. For some reason, I felt that making fun of Asian art was racist so I held my tongue until we entered early European art and then let fly. Political correctness is a b!t*$. I should be able to make fun of all cultures on an equal basis.

We found George and I was done. Ten years of teaching a lesson on this painting should have prepared me but I was wonder-struck by its size. The details drew me closer. I couldn't shut up. My classroom reproduction did not reveal the presence of a black soldier in the boat. I snapped a picture. And then another one. "Why did you take two pictures," Savannah asked, peering over my shoulder. "I accidentally zoomed in on Washington's junk," I explained. "That would be for an entirely different kind of lesson," Savannah agreed, nodding.

We lost Sydney for a bit. "Where are you?" she texted. "By the Penis and Medusa," I texted back. We love Greek and Roman art."Look at the size of that snake," I said, admiring the statue. A man sketching the sculpture glanced up as he put the finishing details on the gorgon's head. Savannah pulled me away before I could comment on the juxtaposition of the two heads. She hates it when I look smart.

We found Sydney in the armor gallery snapping a photograph of a young man who apparently didn't know how to take a selfie. We watched as he thanked her profusely, touched her arm, and then walked away. Oops. Wait. He's back. Can you believe it? He had "accidentally" deleted the first picture. Oh Sydney.

From there, we walked a few blocks over to the Neue Gallery to see the painting Woman in Gold featured in the film of the same name. We did not receive the warmest of welcomes as security apparently categorizes guests into either legitimate art apprecianto or posers who have seen the movie and just want a picture with the painting. Photography was not permitted and one guard, with no justification whatsoever, pegged me as a potential rule-breaker and wouldn't budge from his sentinel position by the painting. He would have saved me a whole lot of time, effort, and ten dollars if he had just told me that a reproduction was positioned by the potties for those so shallow that they HAD to have a picture. 

Since we had spent ten dollars anyway, we pretended to enjoy the art. Well...Sydney and I pretended. Savannah just pretended that she didn't know us. I entered a small gallery room with a herd of tiny Jewish grandmothers. We walked along a wall decorated with tastefully sketched nudes of the female form. Slowly the sketches began to evolve. "She's very nimble," I commented to my companions who had less and less to say as we walked the line between art and eroticism. "This must have been before the era of the disposable razor," I added helpfully. "Maybe she has eczema," I offered, trying to explain why a naked woman would scratch herself so enthusiastically. When the figure's hand disappeared altogether, I decided it was time to go look at a nice still-life of fruit. Unfortunately, I was so worked up by this time that I read too much into the placement of the banana and pears.

"Are you ready to go," Savannah asked. She had somehow skipped the scandalous room and wasn't feeling as traumatized as me. "Let's walk through Central Park and see Balto," I suggested. The memorial to the team of sled dogs delivering diphtheria medicine to Nome, Alaska would clear my mind and re-capture my child-like innocence. "That's one hung husky," I said, posing happily in front of the statue. "Great," grumbled Savannah, "we managed to take inappropriate pictures of Washington AND Balto in one day." "Inappropriate?" I said, "Why, we haven't even begun to scratch the surface." 

You must be bluffing...re-defining landforms in Connecticut

"Do you want to go for a walk," Savannah asked. I sighed inwardly. I did NOT drive seven hours without a doughnut, survive a possible terrorist attack, and navigate a 45 mph curve at 70 to WALK. I pulled my eyes away from her television. Married at First Sight was on. So delightful. So meaningful. Love as God intended. Well...if you know your bible...Leah was veiled. But I don't think Jacob was thrilled with being tricked with this near-sighted alternative so that DEFINITELY wasn't an example of love at first sight. But I bet he wasn't any prize either. What exactly did he have to brag about? "I'm really good at producing speckled sheep?" My...how the girls will swoon over his speckled sheep. But I digress.

I considered my options. If I didn't walk, she might make me tour the submarine museum again. There's a reason that it's FREE, Savannah. "Yeah, okay," I grumbled and we headed off to the Connecticut bluffs. "How long is this trail," I asked as I watched Savannah unceremoniously shove Sydney into swamp water. Twenty-four and twenty-one. My daughters in the middle of a trial with one in a head-lock and the other one yelling, "Mom!" "It's one mile," she finally answered. "Total?" I asked...suddenly alarmed by the silence that greeted me. "Mom...look! A horse," Savannah exclaimed, pointing. There was a horse! And it was wearing a hat! And it was playing in the water! We continued our journey. "Is it a mile one way," I asked. "Is that a jellyfish," Savannah said, crouching down. It was a jellyfish! I ran to get a stick. We made it to the bluffs. Let's get this out of the way, right now. I was raised in the whirling rapids of Letchworth State Park. A girl grown up among the great gorges of the Grand Canyon of the East. "What IS this," I asked, sincerely confused.

I read the sign, proudly proclaiming this tiny outcropping of rocks as a "bluff." "They have GOT to be kidding," I scoffed. Sydney laughed. "No...they're bluffing." The Connet-a-kittens were really enjoying their baby bluffs and didn't find us all that funny as we mocked their rocks so we headed back. "How far is it from here," I asked Savannah who suddenly saw a squirrel. And then a chipmunk. And then a woman combing ticks out of the thick fur of her Golden Retriever. We re-named Savannah's adopted state (again) to Connet-a-tick-ins. "It's not my adopted state," Savannah corrected, "I'm being held hostage." We hopped in her car. "Where to now," she asked. "Dunkin' Donuts," I answered, without hesitation. "How far is it," I wondered. "Look, Mom," she said, pointing out the window as we passed a movie complex, "the new Pirates of the Caribbean is playing." I sighed. I would forever remember this day as the day that I was tricked into hiking two miles to see bluffs that weren't actually bluffs. "Forget Dunkin' Donuts," I told Savannah, "I need some coconut rum." Drink up, me hearties, yo ho!