Defining terms in my marriage

I've been mulling word meanings lately. Like marital and martial and even martian. Three similarly-spelled words with three distinctly different definitions yet ironically-interconnected. Marital as in marital bliss, marital harmony, marital discord. Martial as in martial law. Martian as in inhabiting an inhospitable foreign environment. I have now become MORE than casually acquainted with ALL of these terms...often on the same day...occasionally in the same moment.

Case-in-point: There I was, the picture of domestic bliss, baking banana bread. Feeling productive. Pleased that I was providing a homemade baked good for my husband...when HE (accusatory tone...like a detective unveiling the perpetrator of the crime) walked in. Sniffing the air appreciatively, Brad asked if I was baking cookies. COOKIES! How DARE he!!! Enraged, I lit into him.

Let's see how our words apply. Marital: A husband returns home after a long day at work to a wife, busily bustling about the kitchen, baking banana bread. Martial: Husband is thoughtlessly off-the-mark, olfactory-wise, and the kitchen transforms into the OK Corral. Martian: Husband THOUGHT he was returning home only to discover he had landed on another planet occupied by a hostile species.

Another example: There we were, harmoniously making omelettes together. As Brad diced vegetables, I readied the frying pan and brought out the toaster. "You picked the wrong-sized pan," Brad announced as though he were the ancient knight guarding the Holy Grail. I broke eggs into a bowl and shrugged. "Pour the melted butter into the right one." Now, obviously I was setting my husband up to fail here. No one, in their right mind, would needlessly dirty an extra dish in the midst of a global pandemic. Walking on egg shells, Brad eased forward cautiously. "No...I'll make do," he announced dramatically as though I were sending him into surgery with garden shears instead of a scalpel. "It's not like I did it on purpose," I stated, beating the eggs that I wished were him. There was a SIGNIFICANT pause in the kitchen. Furious, I broke another egg into the bowl, watching shattered shells rain down into the mixture. This was a crucial and telling moment in the marriage as my somehow-completed-despite-the-wrong-sized-pan cooked omelette lay safe by my elbow...and then he said it. "Is that your idea of a garnish?"

Let's review. Marital: A couple cooking together. Martial: Be glad it was egg shells and not shotgun shells. Martian: An alien must have taken over Brad's body because that is the ONLY explanation for the "garnish" comment.

Two Sundays ago was a marital/martial/martian day so we were particularly careful this past Sunday. No sudden movements. Nothing said that could even remotely be misinterpreted. We approached the bakery case in the grocery store and Brad let out a sigh of relief behind his burglar mask. There were fritters. Okay. That was the FIRST major hurdle. Actually, my not hyperventilating as Brad wrestled me into my mask was the FIRST hurdle. I Darth-Vader-breathed my way from the bread aisle to the blueberries, suffering only some residual light-headedness and double-vision. "Amy, I am NOT your husband," Brad droned, as I gasped for breath like an out-of-water Gungan. How rude!

Fritters in hand, we then drove off on this drizzly day to find a nice spot by the water. What we found, instead, was an errant bull planted in someone's front yard. "Should we warn the homeowners?" I asked, (and by we, I obviously meant he...throwing our interpretation rule out the window before we could rock/paper/scissors this rodeo). Brad eyed up the crooked horns of our adversary while the bull seemed to be eyeing up my fritter. "Well, this is just a bunch of nonsense," I said, "if you're not going to take any initiative with this matter, we may as well go" (I didn't actually say that...I just wanted to cleverly weave disguised bull-related puns into my writing. I helpfully highlighted them in green. I've been self-isolating for over a month. I'm bored. So sue me.). 

Leaving the bull behind us, metaphorically, Brad drove us to a secluded spot by an abandoned bridge. It looked like the setting of a crime scene. With the unprecedented ups and downs in our relationship recently, I wondered if I should be worried. "You go first," I told my husband, carefully walking around a circle of discarded condoms laid out in some sort of ritualistic pagan pattern. Whoever said Brad Mosiman wasn't romantic? He made his way down a littered trail to the river while I kept a keen eye out for a carcass. I wasn't disappointed. "Oh dear," I said, pointing to the pile of bones. "You mean Oh deer," Brad corrected. Either way...not appetizing. We took our fritters and fled the scene.

After all that high-adrenalined excitement, I would have been happy to eat my baked good in my living room but Brad was determined to find us a scenic spot. As we watched the waterfalls and the river rolling by, listening to the steady beat of the windshield wipers, I thought about those words again: marital/martial/martian. After thirty years of marriage (marital), it has come down...these past few weeks...to Brad and I against the elements of the unknown...battling together (martial) fear, uncertainty, stupidity, loneliness, and boredom.  And me, grateful...WARNING! CORNY CLICHE COMING!!!...grateful that my marriage is out-of-this-world (martian).

A euchre up-rising

Just like you, there are a LOT of things that I miss. Going to work. Hugging my students (and pretending to hate it). Finding toilet tissue with ease. Not flinching whenever I think about leaving the house. Paper and pencil assignments.

Getting into some semblance of a routine is necessary for my sanity. I make my bed EVERY DAY...just for that reason. Routine. Structure. A feeling of accomplishment. For good or for bad, being relegated to "non-essential" (what an utterly STUPID and degrading term, by the way)...if you are bringing in a paycheck to support your family, guess what? YOU are essential. You ARE essential. You are ESSENTIAL. Certainly MORE essential than the politician stalwartly self-distancing, wearing a mask and sacrificing his/her own paycheck while making back-and-forth, wishy-washy decisions effecting your life, liberty, and livelihood (insert DRIPPING sarcasm here)!

Oops...sorry...rage is starting to rear its ugly head in the Mosiman household. Let me return to what I was going to say before I veered off to grab my storm-Frankenstein's-castle torch and pitchfork. Deep breath. Back to being positive, folks!

Anyhoo...As I was saying before the seeds of rebellion bubbling in my brain took over...I am seeking

a semblance of "normal." Some vestige of my former life. Every other day, my friends and 4th grade colleagues "meet" via video conference call...staring hopelessly at one another like those droopy-tailed bettas in their separate tiny little fish bowls. Where once we communicated effortlessly~~ineffectually but effortlessly ;)~~now we flail...missing subtle nuances (like my constant eye-rolls). We stutter, stammer, and then steam...on a continual, endless loop. Don't get me wrong...we've hammered out a plan to, as best as humanly possible, meet the needs of our students and families. We are on-line from as early as 6:30 in the morning and are still communicating with students, adults, and each other until well past 10:00 at night. Our constant, tired lament is "If I could only access my classroom, we could..." In our diligent building of this house-of-cards virtual classroom that we've been dealt, we lost ourselves...walled up in separate rooms of straw and sticks.

And then there was euchre. For the last six years, my grade level team has played euchre EVERY Tuesday at lunch. Sometimes we manage to actually play an entire game, but, more often then not, conversation stalls us to a single hand where someone inevitable asks, "What's trump again?" at least a dozen times. There is trash-talking, laughter, frustration, fighting, and fun. EVERY Tuesday. And then...the "Pause." I refer to call it the "Punch." It definitely took us awhile to even BEGIN thinking about the logistics of playing again. But it was always there...lurking in the back of our minds.

One quarter of us entered this pandemic with passable technological skills. Now we can all, more or less, stumble our way through the interwoven maze that is on-line learning. Learning to virtually play cards together was a bit of a challenge. There is a wonderful video component that can work if your county's internet hasn't recently been flooded with an over-load of panicked users. When necessary, we  improvised audio by holding one of our phones up to the laptop speaker. We were desperate to make it work. "Don't hit START," I warned as we test-tried it. Geri, thinking I had some sort of Napoleon-complex going on, repeatedly hit START anyway. Inevitably, we'd have to leave the game, re-link up, and try again until we got everyone situated. And then we were playing again. And we were US again. Trash-talking. Asking what trump was (EVEN though it was clearly pictured on the screen). Accusations of cheating flew. And spirits soared.

Suddenly my narrow world widened a little. Excited, I called my girls in California. My friend, Joan dusted off her trusty laptop (You know those old jalopies with the crank start? Now picture her laptop.). My dining room was filled with friends, family, and laughter. The next day, we played again and instead of Joan's picture popping up, Savannah and I screamed when we spotted our dear friend Durwin instead. You know the guy that spits on his hands before he turns the crank on the old jalopy and then curses this new-fangled piece of useless technology? That's Durwin...who somehow managed to turn all of our screens a solid green color before bellowing, "Joannie!"

Joan expanded our world to her card-shark mother who may or may not have taken all my money and one kidney in a tournament years ago. Brad and I reached out to our friends, the 'burgs, and spent a lovely hour listening to Jeanne crow victoriously as she took practically every trick. As the dealer, Todd triumphantly called up hearts and then his own sank as I asked what the procedure for my going alone was in this particular circumstance. Like castaways on a deserted island who use pebbles and shells to play checkers, we improvised. And for a moment, we weren't under a government-imposed house arrest deemed necessary for the public health. We were TOGETHER...laying all our cards on the table for our mental health.

I'm watching scared people wear masks as they ride their bikes down an other-wise empty street. I am enraged that my local Greenway Trail is closed and some government employee was paid to post specially-made signs directing me to stay six feet away from fellow hikers on a trial in the middle of NO WHERE while my shaggy bangs grow as long as a Shetland pony's and my friends, Sarah and Meghan, are unable to conscientiously wear a mask to earn a living to support their families with dignity and, more importantly, save me from hair homicide. I am tired of having elected officials (who are getting paid a LOT of money and are not making the same sacrifices that they are sanctimoniously imposing on the sheep of this county..."Ba-aa! Ba-aa!" said Amy Mosiman) assume that I am too stupid and selfish not to jeopardize the health of my parents and other's vulnerable to this virus. I keep getting posts wondering what the Greatest Generation would think of our whining about "staying home." I think they would be alarmed that the liberties that they fought so hard to defend were being jeopardized while I sat and watched re-runs. They would be appalled by aged, married couples separated and one having to be lifted up in a cherry-picker to wish his wife a happy anniversary outside her second story window. They would be dismayed that some, so overwhelmed by fear, would rather face an empty fridge and no tp than risk leaving the house. The Greatest Generation was called to action. I think they might be insulted and disgusted by our lack of reaction. But...for now...as we remain on Pause...as the world holds its breath in between calling one another selfish or complacent...we wait for the next hand to be dealt. Until then, who wants to play on-line euchre with me?

My cool, calm demeanor is just a masquerade

 Since the mask ordinance came into play, I admit I'm a little twitchy. Seeing people in masks was disconcerting. The thought of wearing one was dismaying...worries about my closeted claustrophobia added yet another layer to my Princess and the Pea anxieties. Brad was already concerned enough about my extreme mania, my odd fixation on needing to know where his car keys were located at all times, my fun new habit of never sleeping, along with the eternal ticking time bomb that would trigger a burst of tears. Let's add trying to bridle up his untamed tiger of a wife and lead her, fighting, screaming, and sobbing into a store to the mix.

So I came up with a clever plan. I would just NEVER leave the house again. I was sure Brad would never notice.

Brad noticed.

"You know," he said, repeating his carefully-crafted list of all the things that would "fix" me, "if you would start sleeping, things wouldn't seem as overwhelming." I nodded. Check. Start sleeping. "And," he continued, "maybe cut back from twelve mini-Peppermint Patties a day to maybe six." Sure. Six. "A little exercise wouldn't hurt," he hinted. Uh-huh...yeah. Although to my credit, I've worn an IMPRESSIVE treaded path from my couch to the fridge. Baby steps.

Sunday is Amy Adventure Day (Brad doesn't know that I call it that.). We drive to Fillmore for fritters and park by a body of water to enjoy them with our coffee. A stream. The Genesee River. Rushford Lake. As we drive, I peer out the window excitedly, gasping for joy when I spot a squirrel, a fox, horses, cows...doesn't matter...it's THE WORLD OUTSIDE!!!

But a new delightful quirk has developed where I now gasp at any sudden vehicular movement or if Brad changes course without narrating his intention. Brad, naturally, finds this little idiosyncrasy of mine adorable. As I was busy panicking because he was backing up the van, Brad also decided to introduce the idea of going to, not just my fritter store, but Dollar General as well. Farewell fritter. There's only so much that a man can take...the next hour had me sitting in the parked (whew) van in my drive-way, crying for an hour while Brad hid in the house, completely at a loss.

He was patiently waiting for me when I managed to return to the house. "Are you ready to try again?" he asked. (No.) I nodded. We drove carefully to Fillmore, Brad narrating the journey and pointing out all the animals for me to enjoy. We decided ONE store was enough for today. That fritter felt like a freaking trophy. We parked at Rushford Lake and enjoyed our treat before walking the dogs. I spotted what looked like a broken piece of pottery under the dock and ducked under to retrieve it. It was a Sentiment Stone and I froze as I read the message:  "You Decide." I felt my chest constrict as I considered this idea. I have never felt more OUT OF CONTROL IN MY LIFE. And I am a flippin' control FREAK!!! I decide...HOW? WHAT?

Safe at home again, I began browsing...okay...maybe NOT a mask...what about a light-weight neck gaiter? Lots of cute ones. With dachshunds. Then I stumbled over the solution to my problem: A stylish bucket hat with a surrounding clear plastic shield guard. I triumphantly showed Brad to show him that I am taking decided measures to get better. He looked doubtful. "If you buy it, you HAVE to wear it," he said. What a silly comment. Why ELSE would I buy it? I was shocked that they weren't sold out! CLICK! Stay tuned, friends...this girl will soon be back "on the market!" (That was a pun that could mean I might successfully be able to grocery shop without immediate therapeutic intervention or Brad would, rightly, say, "That's it!" and file for divorce.")

Cracking ourselves up on Easter

 Holidays away from my girls are hard. Holidays in the midst of a global pandemic while I am away from my girls are even harder. Flights out west were out. My NY license plates make me Public Enemy #1 should I attempt a Smokey and the Bandit-inspired cross-county trip to rescue my daughters and bring them home. Believe me. It WAS discussed. A power point presentation was set up to remind me of every time I've gotten lost while driving. Twenty minutes was devoted to failed trips to and from the airport. A bonus montage was added for fun, focusing on times I've gotten lost IN the airport. After that, we enjoyed the blooper reel of me unable to successfully exit the airport. "What level are you on?" my husband's frustrated voice blared at me through the phone. "There's more than one level?" I answered, shocked. Finally, after the hour-long presentation designed to demoralize me ended, I resigned myself to Easter without my daughters.Which meant that Brad was resigned to finding a way to get me through the day without a meltdown.

Hence, an itinerary. He distracted me Saturday by letting me boss him around all afternoon, taping a Children's Message for church. At one point, he was stuffed deep into the dark depths of our closet, armed with a SCUBA diving flashlight while I knelt outside of it with a towel draped, Samaritan-style, over my head, sobbing over the empty "tomb." On my cue, the heavenly light indicating the miraculous presence of the Lord would come blazing out of the Mosiman family clothes closet. Unfortunately, Brad couldn't stop dramatically sniffling and sneezing from his surroundings so we decided to move the scene to the cow tunnel in our field. It appeared very authentic...very moo-ving.

Easter dawned, bright and early. Before I even had a chance to think, I was packed in the van with some coffee for a secret cross-county mission. Two hours later, we returned home for some strawberry puffed pancakes. My full-proof recipe failed and there was no poof to my puff which triggered the beginning of a sobbing huff...waylaid by Brad's enthusiastic shaking of the red and white container before unleashing a fire-y foam to put out the impending flame of emotion threatening to sweep over me. "Nothing a little whipped cream can't fix," he said.

From there, we headed over to Conesus Lake. This was quite the effective distractive maneuver as the frigid wind froze my brain cells as we traipsed along the train in search of fish with more sense than us to be out. We took our picture by the "Social Distancing" sign posted in this remote location and counted ourselves blessed to live in a country that finds creative and resourceful ways of keeping our government employees busy. Things got a little tricky as Brad weighed the risks of taking us to the little dock where we always posed for a family picture. Would the ghost of our absent girls get in the way? "Let's send Savannah and Sydney a picture before we go," Brad suggested, tugging me down the wooden walk-way, "Do you want to drive through Letchworth Park on the way home?" I smiled for the picture and nodded. I did.

Letchworth was pandemically-crowded, as it always is these days. We found a slightly-secluded spot and enjoyed the breath-taking view. Brad, disgusted by the posted signs declaring the very-open pavilions "closed," delighted in re-enacting the scene from MASH where Hawkeye taunts Frank who is in house-arrest. "I can go in," Brad told me, entering the off-limits building. "I can go out," he stepped out. "In...out...in...out," he chanted, hopping back and forth over the thresh-hold while I clutched my sides, laughing hysterically. Wait.

What was this? Surprised, I pulled a small nutcracker from my coat pocket. A left-over remnant of a failed April Fool's prank. And somehow, that odd appearance inspired a rather weird photo shoot. Balancing that little guy on stone walls in front of waterfalls just completely "cracked" me up.

Of course I still missed my girls. I missed their childhood egg hunts. I missed stealing their Easter candy. I missed the inevitable "Remember how Mom baked the holiday ham in its plastic wrapper...to maintain moistness?" I missed the ceaseless teasing about my obsession with the annual butter lamb and Sydney's declaration that she could easily carve a replica. I missed them. But thanks to some careful, thoughtful, sensitive planning, I wouldn't have wanted to miss this Easter with my husband for the world.

Mulch ado about nothing: When onions made Amy cry

Oh great...ANOTHER post about Amy sniveling. My time-line for crying during these last few weeks is impressive...beginning just four days into the self-quarantine when I finally got to speak to my first 4th grader. After a text conversation with the parent, my phone rang as requested. I picked it up, smiling and said, "Is this my most favorite person in the whole world?" And without missing a beat, Lyla's 9-year-old voice declared confidently, "Yes it is!" We chatted for five minutes and then hung up...and I burst into tears, my heart aching.

And that was only the beginning.

One of my strategies to thwart the all-consuming tsunami of emotions that come crashing down on me out of nowhere is to back-track my triggers.

Trigger #1 for today was my assigned reading for our church's on-line Good Friday service. I had volunteered earlier in the week but did not receive verification until 8 o'clock this morning for the noon service. While I may come off as an impulsive person more than capable of winging it, I actually like to be scheduled and prepared. I quickly printed off my assigned reading in size 26 font and began practicing. My nervousness about reading was, of course, compounded by nagging doubts about the reliability of the technology involved. I requested that we meet before noon to "walk-through" the service schedule. My pastor, who has WAY more faith in me than I deserve, graciously accommodated my insane, nit-picky plea. Naturally, my fears were over-blown and the on-line service was going along swimmingly...everyone present in their picture-in-picture box singing happily along..."It is well...{echo}...It is well..." when suddenly, it wasn't well. My screen went black. I shifted to my right where I had another device ready in the event of such an emergency but I hadn't been diligently moving the mouse so it had gone to sleep. Arrgghhh! After much scrambling and swearing, I made it back in time for my second reading...my hands and voice shaking from the strain of stress.

Triggers #2--5 occurred at the grocery store. I DO NOT go out. I am trying very hard to be part of the solution rather than the symptomatic spreading. Unfortunately, it's turning me a bit agoraphobic.

• Seeing all the store's precautionary measures first-hand rather than on the news made it very real very fast. Feeling people's fear...watching them draw away as I passed them with my cart...masks that made it impossible to read expressions...
• The paper products aisle was shocking. That we are this far into self-quarantine and even the single-ply, sandpaper Scott's has skedaddled off the shelves? 
• Brad and I proceeded to frozen foods to buy pearly onions for scalloped potatoes and ham next week. The frozen vegetables looked like a buy three/get five free panty blow-out at Victoria's Secret. "How can there be no pearly onions?" I asked baffled, peeking under a package of mashed cauliflower (yuck). I pushed back some brussel sprouts (ugh), "No one likes pearly onions," I stated. Brad offered to get a couple jars back in the canned vegetable aisle and that's when I first became consciously aware that I was headed for trouble. 
• At some point, Brad and I were separated and I found myself near the discounted items. Llama-shaped soap-making kits for $1.50! I grabbed two. Look! There are also flamingo-shaped ones! I grabbed two more. As fun prizes. For my classroom. I started to shake again. I didn't HAVE a classroom right now. 

Brad re-appeared and guided me to check-out. I placed the discount toys that this year's 4th graders may never have a chance of winning on the conveyor belt, looked at Brad and whispered, "I'm sorry...I've gotta go..." and ran out of the store. The van was locked...I glanced around through a glaze of tears and spotted a secret tunneled alleyway of mulch positioned to the side of the store's entryway. I crawled in there, buried my face in my knees and cried. When I could breath again...when it felt like my heart was no longer going to explode...when the surface of my skin didn't rival the heat on the surface of the sun...I texted Brad...I'm in the mulch. He didn't even question it. Simply loaded up the groceries into the van and then pulled up to the mulch to load up his wife. As we drove home, we carefully talked about my triggers. And how I'm not sleeping. And how I'm not putting any boundaries on work at all. And...and...and. 

I'm fine with not being fine right now. It's temporary. I'm getting used to riding this ridiculous roller-coaster of emotions and am beginning to recognize when I'm about to suddenly plunge downward...instead of screaming insanely, I'm learning to just grit my teeth and hang on until it's over. I no longer slam my eyes shut as we careen through the tunnel because, if I can fight to keep my eyes open, I can see a light at the other end. There is one good thing that I can say about this roller-coaster...I am grateful that I'm not riding it alone. Hands up, everyone! Here we go!

What happened to felt-boards? Children's Sermons: Bigger than Broadway!

While my hyper-active, over-loaded, spinning-out-of-control, up-all-night brain was laser-focused on obliterating the limited means I was afforded to reach out and meet the needs of my now-isolated students, a small but persistent nagging feeling was ever-present in my mind and heart. My church. What was I doing for my church?

Don't get me wrong. I don't actually do ANYTHING for my church. I accompany Brad while he teaches Sunday School and deliberately sabotage every lesson with irrelevant conversation, eye-rolling, and outright mocking. I begrudgingly agree to read assigned bible passages during sermon once a month and BITTERLY complain about it to my pastor for days leading up to the reading and for days following the reading. And I'm not counting how I complain from the pulpit itself and then write a follow-up blog chronicling the entire experience in dramatic detail. I did donate sugar-free lime Jello to the church's little bird house for people but no one wants it. Brad and I eagerly track its movement from week-to-week...slight shifts in angle and one big exciting promotion from the middle shelf to the top shelf. We have really high hopes for our donation eventually finding a good home. If you don't want to commit to an adoption, would you consider fostering?

I had broached the idea of video-taping a children's message for our church to Brad several weeks ago but he was dubious about both the idea and implementation of this endeavor. "Why are you going to dress like a bee?" he asked. "Well...first of all, my octopus costume is at school," I explained before also telling him, "And Rachel spent twenty dollars on the bee costume and it would be nice to get her money's worth out of it." Apparently my husband did not feel that these reasons warranted the production of a lavish children's message. I tried selling it a couple of more times but to no avail.

Fast-forward to the Saturday before Palm Sunday.

I have been experiencing, at the speed of light...occurring at unpredictable moments and for undetermined lengths of time, manic high highs and homicidal-ly low lows. In other words, I am a DELIGHT to live with for 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Knowing this, I decided to bring up the children's message again. "The bee won't work," Brad said firmly, "It's Palm Sunday...you can't shove a bee-shaped message into a Jesus-arriving-in-Jerusalem hole." I stared at him...infuriated. Fuming, I fought the impulse to shove a bee-shaped message into his hole.

After thirty minutes of mature, respectful, collaborative discourse, I screamed, "What do YOU suggest then?""It's Palm Sunday," Brad started as I fought the duh, "Jesus, riding a donkey, is entering Jerusalem." I rolled my eyes. I LOVED Brad's bible lessons. He ignored me. "Imagine riding a horse down the old railroad tracks across the road, between the stone walls of the dismantled bridge...Jesus looks up..." My back went ramrod straight. Goose bumps rose on my arms. I could see his vision. "A lone figure stands on the edge, calling down to Jesus...Sunkmanitu Tanka Ob Waci!" I described. "No," Brad frowned, "This isn't Dances With Wolves. Jesus looks at the rock wall and says that if the people didn't acknowledge Him, the rocks would. Are you listening to me, Amy?"

I was already on the phone to my neighbor trying to arrange a horse. This was the best idea EVER! I wondered if 39 degrees was too cold for Brad to stand shirtless on the edge of the bridge. "Put the phone down," my husband said. I was busy mapping scenes in my mind. "Put...the...phone...down," he repeated, "Why do you just plunge into a plan without thinking it all the way through first?" he asked, questioning my creative process and my WHOLE reason for existing. Uh-oh. Cue dramatic mood swing. After thirty minutes of mature, respectful, collaborative discourse, I stormed out of the house. Two hours, a Pepsi, and a walk in the woods later, I returned home.Where else was I going to go? I'm freakin' social distancing here!

Brad was waiting with a more reasonable idea that involved a magic trick, being tied up, and him wearing a fake mustache. "Are you sure this is appropriate material for a children's message?" I joked as Brad secured me with rope. He winked and gave a villainous twist to his pipe-cleaner mustache. "Frankly, my dear," he sneered wickedly at me, "I would be surprised if ANYONE will even be bothered to watch this ridiculousness."

So be it. If no one bothers to watch it, perhaps the rocks will.

And that still, small voice will have been placated...for now.

"Bearly" hanging on this Palm Sunday

 Another Sunday without going to church. "Without going to a church building," Brad stressed, "Remember...WE are the Church." I sighed. I knew he was right. But it was Palm Sunday. I wanted to be at church...singing, praying, smiling, celebrating, and worshiping with my friends. I wanted to be yelling "Hosanna in the highest!" while little kids passed out the slender palms, inadvertently tickling chins and noses with the fragile ferns in the process. But Covid-19 had destroyed any hope of that. Brad filled up my travel coffee cup, wrestled me into my coat, and hustled me out the door. "Didn't you JUST read me something about that?" he asked, leading me to the van. "About how the church wasn't destroyed...it was deployed?" I nodded, sniffling.

I stared out the van window as the world whipped by. I sipped my coffee and sulked. It's not like we could actually go anywhere. "Look!" Brad pointed as a flash of red streaked across the road. "Was that a fox?" I squealed and then shrieked as another one was fast on his friend's tail. Now my eyes were peeled. We saw a pair of swans in a small pond. And then, around a bend... "turkey...turkey...turkey" I chanted as a big ol' tom took his time crossing the two lanes. I laughed at a

white fuzzy llama stomping and skipping around his lady who was none too happy with the attention he was attempting to bestow upon her. Spring was definitely in the air. "Look at that," Brad said as he slowed the van next to a farm. A newborn calf...a NEW newborn calf stood on wobbly legs, regarding us warily as its mom moo-ed a soft assurance. I felt my throat tighten at this sign...of continued life. Birth. Hope.

Armed with our coffee and some doughnuts, Brad and I parked by the river to enjoy the rushing water. We walked down under the bridge, delighting in the echo of our words. Soon we were skipping stones. I'd skipped stones AS a kid and WITH my kids but couldn't remember a time I'd skipped stones as an adult for just the pure enjoyment of passing a smooth pebble over the surface. Two hops. Three. Four. I cast my cares upon the water.

We decided to deliver some lilies to my parents' porch before taking the dogs for a walk at a nearby park. Passing through several small towns, I noticed bears peeking from the windows of many houses. I explained to Brad that this was based on a Facebook movement encouraging people to help engage kids as they took walks. Brad and I were soon racing to rack up the biggest bear-spotting record. Soon, the total number exceeded thirty. "We should put up a bear," I declared. "Do we even have a stuffed bear at home?" my husband asked hopefully ("Yeah...I was hoping we DIDN'T have one," Brad later confessed.). Our girls have been grown and gone for some time now. "I think we may have Sydney's Build-a-Bear with her pre-recorded voice," I said. "Then I guess we'll see," Brad answered.

Even bogged down in mud, our walk at the park was lovely. People have been making the pilgrimage to our beautiful state park so we'd diverted to a county one. We came upon a wooden walkway set like a pirate's punishment plank over a swamp that was teeming with life. Frogs played bass to the lilting sound of little birds with big voices. An old bumpy stump of a tree jutted out of the water on one side of us while in the opposite directions, a Louisiana bayou became part of our Western New York scenery. "If we were to take a selfie," I debated, "I'm not sure which background I'd choose." Clueless whenever I'm more-than-obviously hinting about something, Brad agreed, "That is a tough choice," before he began to walk off. Thanks to this self-isolating, Brad and I have been BLESSED to be able to spend SO much time together. Where once I would have gotten frustrated and been mad at him all day over something he hadn't even realized he'd done, I paused and then smiled. "I'm sorry," I told him, catching his arm, "I shouldn't expect you to be able to read my mind. Can we take a selfie?" Problem averted. Picture taken. Memory preserved. Lesson learned.

As soon as we arrived back home, I rushed into the girls' bedroom and happily exclaimed, "There it is!" I grabbed the brown bear, still looking quite becoming in its pink poodle skirt, from the shelf, dusting it off as I held it up for Brad to see. "Used to be, if you pinched its paw..." Suddenly Sydney's scratchy 10-year-old voice whispered across the room. Brad watched helplessly as the dam of emotions that he'd been valiantly trying to keep in check all day burst open as tears flooded down my face. He regarded the small stuffed bear that housed the ghostly voice of his little girl...the voice was here...an echo of the woman who was 3,000 miles away...separated from us, not just by distance but by circumstance.

So it was, that the Mosimans...on a Palm Sunday leading into Holy Week...featuring Good Friday...hung a bear up...to represent hope...for others to see. We are The Church.

Using duct-ape to fix a broken gorilla...April Fool's Day

 I have an established history of April Fool shenanigans:

Evidence A

Evidence B

Evidence C

Evidence D

But coming up with an April Fool's joke this year seemed unnecessary and redundant considering the colossal cosmic-karma-clusterf&@k in which we currently find ourselves.Nevertheless, I persevered...coming up with not one but THREE April Fool's pranks for Brad. We're not really a Valentine-y type of twosome. Brad, not unlike Pavlov's dogs, has learned to equate love with abuse and embarrassment. And this year...I REALLY wanted to express my devotion.

The first prank involved sewing so I should have anticipated that it would immediately go south. The trick is to sew one sock together, preventing the person from successfully pulling it up over his foot. Definitely NOT worth the work. Plus...for some reason, I thought I should turn the sock inside out first which resulted in a wadded-up sock ball when I tried to turn it back out. Brad was NOT impressed. "You couldn't have used one of the thousands of my socks that have holes in them?" he asked, pitching the sock ball in disgust at my head, still nestled into my sleepy-time pillow.

He went to leave for work and then came storming back. "Why do you have the number "3" printed on a postie note on the front door," he demanded. "You'll see," I muttered, flipping my sleepy-time pillow over.

I waited ALL afternoon for the call. The declaration of his discovery. An announcement of his observance. Word-of-mouth of what he'd witnessed. But none came. And this was after SIGNIFICANT effort on my part...in the dark of night...with inadequate supplies...insufficient skill.

This second prank involved attaching a small toy figurine in front of the reverse camera of Brad's van to trick him into thinking a creeper was peering into the lens. So, at 11:30 at night, dressed stealthily in a wine-colored robe, knee-high rubber boots, a knitted creature cap, and my winter coat, I ventured out to the driveway. This, after ransacking the basement looking for the Gorilla tape. Brad DOES NOT trust me around his tools (Not THAT tool, pervert)...there is a lengthy application process to use the hammer, he won't let me use a screwdriver unless I can provide a lengthy dissertation regarding the differences between a flat-head and the other kind of head (Careful there), and he routinely hides the Gorilla tape like a squirrel hides nuts (Get your mind out of the gutter!). So...no Gorilla tape but I did unearth a roll of packaging tape.

Now...what do I use for a figurine? No toy soldiers in THIS house. Considered ripping the baseball guy off Savannah's T-ball trophy but she might want that someday. Wait! I know! A nutcracker!

So with scissors, strapping tape, a nutcracker and a SCUBA diving flashlight, I ventured out to set up my ingenious prank.

NOT.

Number 1. Strapping tape does NOT stick to a cold, wet van no matter how many times you swear or
how many times you tape your fingers together

Number 2:  Even after you ransack Brad's van and FINALLY find his hidden cache of Gorilla tape...it doesn't matter. Gorilla tape, despite all of its magical properties, does NOT stick to a cold, wet van no matter how many times you swear, tape your fingers together, or throw the roll into the yard and have to spend seven minutes searching for it.

Number 3: Sometimes grit is NOT a good thing. One must know when to surrender. I am just NOT that one. Hey, I thought to myself, squatting down to inspect the back-up camera, I think I can loop an unbent paperclip through there. My household inventory revealed something even better: Pipe cleaners! Cities have been built upon the backs of pipe cleaners. Twelve pipe cleaners later, I'd mummified my nutcracker, chipped a nail on the license plate, and wedged my walnut warrior flush against that stupid camera. And it was only 1 am.

And he NEVER EVEN SAW IT. He did notice that his stash of Gorilla tape had been disrupted. He was visibly (and vocally) annoyed when he learned that he'd been driving around all day with a nutcracker on his car.

Prank number three was my finest hour. "I would like to disagree," Brad said dryly. It was also a lesson on how simple is best. I tried covering the sensor on our remote with Scotch tape but it still worked. I tried yellow tape...nope. Still worked. Yup...you guessed it. I tried the Gorilla tape that I'd squirreled away. Nope. Huh. Wait! They say tinfoil blocks the EZ-Pass transmission! Eureka! A layer of tinfoil and yellow tape did the trick. Oh, he's going to notice that right away, I muttered to myself as I wrote "April Fools!" on the strip before leaving to buy groceries.

But he didn't And he couldn't. And he spent twenty minutes checking the batteries...re-setting the TV...Googling possible solutions. What a laugh we shared together when I got home! I'm sure my 4th grade parents will also get a good laugh as I may have suggested that particular prank to some of my students. Who...in the face of a global pandemic...doesn't want to wrestle with their remote?!? By the way, I'm still waiting for the world to finally wake up and yell, "April Fool's!" so that this can all be over. Until then...I will still go about the business of showing Brad Mosiman how much I love him.