The Case of the Purloined Pumpkins

I admit it. It's a little early in the school year to be going crazy but somewhere along the line, I hit the wall. Planning Halloween costumes ("How many hula hoops do you want me to buy?" Brad asked incredulously. Really? HOW long has this man been married to me?), producing a music video, performing my own stunts, wrestling seventeen longhouses into my classroom, and trying to get twenty nine-year-olds to pronounce Haudenosaunee correctly (As if I knew how to pronounce Haudenosaunee). And somewhere in there...teach.

So...somewhere along the millionth time that I was forced to stomp by Mr. King's classroom, where his children always appeared to be quietly engaged in learning, I stopped longing to break into his UNOPENED container of candy Halloween pumpkins perched invitingly outside his door and simply acted upon it. It's not like he wasn't warned. This storm had been building for awhile. Just the day before, I had launched a verbal tantrum of epic proportions upon his 3rd graders waiting (quietly and in a perfect line) to enter their classroom. "WHY would your teacher leave an UNOPENED container of candy on top of the cubbies for OVER A WEEK!?!" I yelled. "It's unconscionable!" I stormed off. Mr. King later when on to win the Nobel Peace Prize of Teaching on his stellar vocabulary lesson based on the term unconscionable.

So..yeah. I'm not going to lie. I stole it. The statute of limitations for unopened candy pumpkins perched on a hallway cubby had LONG expired. I snuck the container into the office and proceeded to cut my finger on the practically impenetrable packaging. However, neither blood nor karma could deter me. "Joanne, I need some scissors," I cried. The silent secretary handed me shears and a band-aid. "A-ha!" I popped the pilfered pumpkin in my mouth, victorious! "What on earth are you doing?" Joanne finally asked when I'd stopped hemorrhaging. A staunch advocate of taking personal accountability for one's actions, I bravely admitted my crime (There are cameras in the hall, after all).
Withholding judgement, Joanne instead resorted to blackmail. "But you're diabetic!" I cried, trying to hold the pumpkins out of reach, "Joanne! Consider your health!" Deftly, Joanne spun around, delivering a roundhouse kick before administrating a painful armbar forcing me and my (stolen) pumpkins into submission. Confiscating one candy pumpkin, she then handed back the container, demanding that I return my ill-gotten gain. "I'll be watching," she threatened, motioning to her video monitor. I sighed, returning the container to Mr. King's cubby...my candy-confiscating crime-spree over. For now.

Sacré bleu! Profanity from the pulpit!

If that man dedicated as much of his time to creating  heartfelt, life-changing sermons as he does to making my life miserable, Jesus would quickly be kicking either James or John out of the seats next to Him to make room for Calvin. By the way, I always thought that it took a lot of...nerve to ask Jesus for reserved seating like the Messiah is a maître d. 

But no. Rather than spending grueling hours suffering for his craft, MY pastor is rubbing his hands together gleefully, googling biblical terms that, when read aloud, would make a grown woman blush.

"What am I suppose to do with this?" I growled at my husband who, despite my endless complaining, keeps encouraging me to volunteer. Brad glanced at the word. "What's the problem?" he asked. "Read it aloud," I snarled. He did. Oh. 

Micah 6:5. Remember your journey from Shittim to Gilgal that you may know the righteous acts of the Lord. 

One syllable? Terrible. Two syllables emphasized the naughty word even more. I was at a loss. I'm no stranger to the salty language but I'm usually pretty reserved from the pulpit. "Did you google the pronunciation?" Brad asked. "Yes," I snapped. "It sounds like it's spelled!" Additional research revealed that the term refers to the wood from the acacia tree. Super helpful. 

I couldn't even practice like I normally do. I spent the bulk of the time freezing my face into a placid, reserved expression as I uttered a word more at home in a septic tank than a sanctuary.  Brad's jaw clenched as I practiced in the van as we drove to service. "That sounded good," he insisted as I offered a few words of my own about my pastor's choice of verse selection. A half hour later, I took a deep breath as I approached the podium, taking note of the diabolical smile pasted to my pastor's face. What could I do but throw a Hail Mary? With my best French accent, I addressed the word that could have been my downfall..."Remember your journey from Sh'tem to Gilgal..." I recited. I finished with a flourish, smiled sweetly at my pastor and skipped down the steps...redeemed. Thank goodness I became so fluent during my trip abroad. "Parlez-vous français?" I was asked. "Un petit couleur," I'd answered flawlessly, again deftly navigating yet another conversational conundrum. 

Toot-Toot-Tootsie, Good-Bye. Watch out for the predator!

Well..it happened again. In that epic war of man vs mouse, woman has once again intervened. I walked into my darkened classroom moments before it would be bombarded by twenty 4th graders to glimpse a small shadow float across the floor. It's just my imagination, I tried to convince myself, unwilling to launch myself into the chaotic drama that inevitably accompanies the arrival of a small rodent. I stared at the ceiling, praying that that baby mouse had the sense God gave him to immediately hide. Flight or fight, baby. C'mon. But no. This little guy was a people-person. People-mouse.

Students were now slowly trickling in. As casually as I could, I grabbed the metal lid of our candy jar and gently set it over our little guy as he attempted to raise up on his hind-legs and deliver Hamlet's soliloquy. It was not meant to be. "Rachel," I asked gently, "Could you please gently place your foot on top of our lid?" I scurried off to grab a paper plate. "Andrew, dump the candy out of our jar, please." The kids were surprisingly calm, curious as to what their normally loud and obnoxious teacher was  quietly hiding under that lid. Tools of transfer in place, I delivered a quick lesson on empathy. "There is a baby mouse underneath the lid," I announced solemnly, eliciting gasps. Hands covered mouths in shock. "How does our baby mouse feel right now?" "Scared," they whispered. We discussed the importance of staying silent and limiting our movements. I explained the transfer procedure. No one in the room, including Mrs. Mosiman and the mouse, believed it would actually work. It did. Our baby mouse was safely confined in our glass candy jar. "Let's name it, Tootsie," Charlotte squealed, noting the stuck-on Tootsie-Roll at the bottom of the jar.

I used our science vocabulary to shield me from the pleas of "Can we keep him?" "Where is this mouse's natural habitat?" I asked. We eliminated the playground and the sports fields as release areas. Mrs. Mosiman nixed the plan of traipsing miles out to release our little guy on the Nature Trail. We had a place value assessment to complete. We settled on the small copse of trees by the middle school. As quiet as mice (NOT), we set off on our animal release adventure. Another science vocabulary word was implemented as Ethan spotted a large bird flying overhead. "That's a predator, Mrs. Mosiman!" More begging ensued. We pointed the open jar toward the trees. Tootsie stepped out, took a long look around ("Look UP, Tootsie," Ethan whispered.) and then high-tailed it BACK toward the school. Students screamed. I screamed at students. We surrounded Tootsie like Conestoga wagons trying to turn our stampeding mouse in the right direction. Tootsie finally disappeared into the tall weeds and we returned to our room to discover that it was now to late to take our math exam. "This is the best day EVER," Amanda exclaimed. We cleaned our candy jar and called it a day.

Later on though, the head of maintenance came in. "I heard you had a mouse, Mrs. Mosiman," he said. I looked at him suspiciously. This could NOT be good. "Maybe..." I hedged, wheels turning as I wondered who had ratted me out. "I have a sticky trap," Todd told me. "We're more of a catch-and-release room," I told him. He narrowed his eyes at me. "Oh...me too," he agreed, promising that he planned to catch and release any mouse that wandered into his diabolical trap. I shared with him the educational components that accompanied a visit from one of God's little creatures. I expounded upon the rich and relevant vocabulary that we were able to use in an authentic setting. "I have another rich and relevant vocabulary word for you, Mrs. Mosiman," he said, setting the trap in an inconspicuous  corner. "Infestation."