The only way I was going to catch my flight yesterday was with a big net

It might have been my 3:45 am departure time.

It might have been my traveling on Christmas Eve.

It might have been my poor pairing of prosecco with ibuprofen. 

Whatever the case, yesterday proved that all the time I spent, laying awake, worrying about all the possible travel fiascos that might occur was not time wasted...it was more of a mental rehearsal for the inevitable.

Turns out (Hold onto your Santa hat) that Christmas Eve at an airport is not the ideal setting for people to be their best s"elves." 

As I am pretty occupied with just trying to keep my breathing and heart-rate at a manageable level in this environment while constantly tracking the closest exits, I am in a poor position to self-advocate. So, as I shuffled meekly along in the 45 minute TSA line, I was not prepared to deal with the airman who appeared to tell me that he would be getting in front of me because he needed to get to Sacramento. 

Imagine. Someone in line at an airport...needing to get somewhere.

I am furious with myself as I remember this.

I am a 4th grade teacher. I deal with the ramifications of budging on a daily basis. I take it VERY seriously. I am not the "We're all going to the same place and will get there at the same time" sort of educator. I am the "I paid thousands of dollars to go to Disney and have been waiting for hours in the Space Mountain line and heaven help the arrogant ass who thinks they can cut" sort of gal. Road rage begins with kids who budge in 4th grade. I'm on the front lines, y'all.

I stewed the entire time that I let this idiot take advantage of my vulnerability.

We finally made it to the security area...people being herded through narrow passageways. My tunnel vision made me balk as I was none-too-gently coaxed forward. "You can't have your sweater," the agent barked at me. I stared at him stupidly. "You have to go back." 

Back where?

I returned uncertainly to the conveyor belt. I didn't want to interrupt the flow of traffic. Clutching my sweater like Linus's blanket, I motioned to the agent there. "You'll have to go back." I looked "back." There wasn't even a clear end to the "back." A pilot, standing there with his plastic bin, snagged my sweater and put it in with his belongings. The agent wasn't happy as apparently we were breaking some sort of textile-related international law. The pilot waved me back to the body scanner as he continued to fight for the rights of my sweater.

Sweater-safely-in-hand, I made it to my gate and spotted Sacramento in line to board. Idiot. 

Buckled in, we waited to be cleared for take-off.

Huh.

Apparently, a warning light had alerted the pilot of an open hatch. I commiserated. I recently drove to Brockport with my trunk open.

The ONE mechanic scheduled to work at the airport on Christmas Eve morning finally arrived to slam the hatch shut for us.

Our hero.

Except he forgot to sign "The Book."

And had already left to close another open hatch on a plane parked on the opposite side of the airport. 

Thirty minutes to close the hatch.

Forty-five minutes for the mechanic to come back.

In the interim, many helpful suggestions were offered including forgery, taking the book TO the mechanic, up-dating "The Book" to a more modern electronic version, and stuffing "The Book" where the sun doesn't shine. I texted my friend Katriel that we would be putting a unit on cursive writing back into our curriculum. Apparently, not knowing how to pen your signature can shut down international travel. 

My window to make my connecting flight was shut before the plane even left the tarmac.

Oddly enough...I didn't care. I knew my daughters were already scurrying, re-routing my passage to them and that, by the time I landed in Detroit, a new flight would be waiting for me. I glanced over at Sacramento and tried to channel my Christian thoughts. Maybe he was worried about being late returning from leave.  I bet he had donated an organ to a stranger. Or maybe he had had to return home to care for his ailing mother. Although I'm sure his ailing mother would have been appalled that he had budged in line and neglected to say "please" or "thank you" in the process. Whatever-the-case, he wasn't going to make his flight either. Rarely do I smile on a plane.

I sat, serenely, as we landed, passengers breaking protocol to rush to the front. Someone in the middle of the plane yelled, "This is anarchy," and I laughed. No need to rush...sooner or later, I would be in Austin. It was just a matter of when.

There are worse places to be than in the Detroit airport for a six hour layover on Christmas Eve.

Right?

I was on sensory overload.

Noises...everywhere.

There is no discernible flow to the pedestrian traffic so I felt like a claustrophobic salmon, fighting my way up-stream. 

"Go buy some Tylenol," my family kept saying as I would find a little hide-y-hole, only to be chased out by people with no regard for space bubbles. There are TWENTY empty chairs. Why on earth would someone sit RIGHT NEXT TO ME? 

The stores I bravely ventured into were self-check-out and only accepted cards.

Naturally, I ran away.

I curled up in another little hide-y-hole and nibbled Twizzlers like a baby bunny nibbling blades of grass. Yup. Hello, family of five (including a cart-wheeler). Please, sit down in an area with FIFTY empty seats, DIRECTLY across from me. 

I found a human who would sell me Advil.

I decided to "buy" a secluded seat by going into a restaurant. I paid nine dollars for tomato bisque which turned out to be canned tomato soup with a ribbon of milk poured on top. I felt all the eyes of the restaurant scrutinizing me as I scrunched over the bowl like Quasimodo. I ordered a mimosa so that I would look like a confident, sophisticated traveler. I adjusted my posture...ramrod straight. I daintily scooped my spoon outward in the soup bowl, away from me...half-full...lifting it with feather-like finesse to my lips. My napkin, placed properly in my lap, was then used to gently blot the edges of my mouth. "How is everything?" the waitress asked, clearly judging me. "Delightful," I answered. 

But it was NOT delightful. I wanted a hide-y-hole.

I paid for my nine dollar soup and my fourteen dollar mimosa (after taking my two six dollar Advil tablets) and tried to casually exit the restaurant like a normal person. I felt like a fraud.

Detroit does sport a cute (and totally unnecessary) monorail system. They have underground tunnel access points (blaring music and with a choreographed light show--I had to practically soldier-crawl through), shuttle buses, and moving walk-ways every fifteen feet. But hey! Let's stuff a monorail in there too.

Turns out that an over-stimulated, on-the-brink-of-a-nervous-break-down, about-to-have-an-episode Amy Mosiman THRIVES in a mostly-empty, blissfully-quiet, monorail-to-nowhere. 

After thirty minutes of pretending I was at Disney, I decided to look for another hide-y-hole. The exertions of the day were making me sleepy-tired  ("Are you sure it wasn't the mimosa?" Douglas asked later). I settled into another unoccupied area with a ka-zillion empty seats and drifted off, only to be jarred awake by the man who suddenly appeared at my elbow and put his phone on blast to Youtube.

I scurried away.

Remembering a fountain that I had passed hours ago, I re-traced my steps to this peaceful water source.

Settling into a nearby chair, I watched as a burst of water exploded out of an embedded nozzle, arcing over the flat surface of the fountain, separating into droplets before falling into its designated chamber. This choreographed water fireworks show hypnotized me and I felt myself being lulled to sleep. I carefully slid my leg through the arm strap of my trusty backpack as a deterrent to would-be robbers (because who wouldn't want to steal a backpack full of loose and lint-y Twizzers that had exploded from its packaging when I surreptitiously tried to remove just ONE during the flight to Detroit?) and slumbered peacefully...like a princess (or an inebriated hobo).

I awoke, refreshed (and sober). 

Those six hours had FLOWN by!

I boarded my flight with guarded optimism. 

A TV!

An empty row!

I brushed off some lint-y Twizzlers and settled in for the roomy ride!

My in-flight movie couldn't hold a candle to the sight outside of my little window. 

The sun was setting on my Christmas Eve adventure, blanketing the clouds beneath me in a soft, ethereal glow. I was almost to my daughters...having battled bad manners, capitalistic congestion, wide-spread societal narcissism and my own inept inner demons to reach them.

We're all on a journey, yes?

Your journey may take you to your living room...across town...or across the county. 

But while you are on your journey...please, remember that you are not alone. 

Smile, if you can. Be polite. Be patient. Be forgiving. Throw a little extra in the tip jar. Make room in your plastic bin for someone's sweater. 

And don't budge.

If you can't help...then get out of the way (and go sit on the monorail...it's quiet there).

Just try to stay on track, the best you can, without derailing those around you.

I had no idea what was in store for me today...

I'm mostly okay.

But, then again, aren't we all?

I am still coming to grips with my doctor calling me "high-functioning." I had initially taken it as a compliment but my husband informed me that it was, in fact, a diagnosis.

Huh.

Today, I was not okay.

With Brad out of town, I thought I would complete the holiday shopping that drives him nuts...namely, my agonizing over presents for my 4th graders. 

I went into Minus Funf. 

On a Saturday. 

In December. 

I ran laps endlessly in that crowded store, flinging treasures into my cart. Gummy bologna. How quirky! A unicorn-shaped ball popper! There were ones shaped like a shark and a dinosaur too! Into the cart they went! I shoved my over-flowing, uncooperative cart toward the check-out and stopped short at the line. My already-rapidly-beating heart responded with a frenetic drum solo of epic proportions. I looked to the door. This was when Brad Mosiman would typically arrive to wrestle me back to the vehicle. 

Nope.

The helpful Minus Funf staff gestured me to my self-check-out kiosk with its one-foot-by-one-foot of counter space. My unicorn-shaped ball popper was two feet in length. I had, of course, purchased four of them. Sweat peppered my brow. I fought to control my shaking hands and shakier breath. Balls rolled out of reach. I was the worst bagger EVER as my cloth bags kept collapsing. The screen interviewed me about my shopping experience, graciously offered me an opportunity to donate to the charity of their choice, and presented me with a host of choices of how to pay them for my doing everything short of driving the product to their store for them. I blinked tears angrily out of my way as I debated whether I wanted to print a receipt or save a renewable resource and thus remain ignorant about the cost of my purchases. I tried to calm my anxiety with empathy as I imagined the frustration of an illiterate person. Or an individual who couldn't speak English. Or the elderly. 

Wait. Was I THE ELDERLY?

I wrestled my uncooperative cart through the non-automatic doors and to my truck. The young man, whose only job is to point "customers" (otherwise known as "uncompensated workers") to the next available check-out station-from-Hell, watched me perform feats of gymnastic prowess to open the door and clatter his cart back in, thanked me for my kindness.

This should have been the end of my journey.

But Brad Mosiman was out of town.

Thomas Jefferson Minimum was right down the plaza...within walking distance. Even on a good day, Brad Mosiman does not let me go in there. It is an organizational nightmare. My OCD is off-the-charts in that store. So...it seemed like the perfect time to go. On a Saturday. In December.

I walked down the sidewalk and encountered a small plate sitting outside a store-front door. Upon the plate was a bagel. Buttered. Cream cheese. Protected by plastic wrap. Huh.

I made it to Thomas Jefferson Minimum. I should have seen the signs but I was infatuated by the abandoned bagel. I didn't notice that there weren't any shopping baskets OR carts by the (automatic) doors. I missed the vultures perched nearby...waiting to swoop on exiting customers to pick them clean of their purchase-carrying vessels. The tightly-packed clothing lanes drove me to the perimeter of the store and I was swept up in a human river...schools of shoppers flitting this way and that. I couldn't escape the current of consumerism. Before I knew it, my arms were filled with disco ball-shaped holiday lights, measuring spoons that looked like little copper pots, and two little boxed games of "Finger Twister," complete with a pair of tiny socks for the participating digits. 

Again, I found myself in a VERY long line and longed for my husband who would have stopped this madness. I would have refused to talk to him for several days as a result of his ruining my "fun," but, oh my goodness...so worth it. 

A human being checked out my purchases. "Did you find everything you were looking for?" I stared at him, incredulously. I hadn't been looking for ANY of this. Who in their right mind buys "Finger Twister?" But, at the moment, I was incapable of speech beyond one-syllable-ed responses.

"Yes."

He began to competently bag my items. When did I buy a Grinch romper? "Will you be paying with a Thomas Jefferson Minimum card today?'

"No."

He carefully placed a monogrammed mirrored compact into the bag. I prayed it had a relevant initial on it. "Would you like to apply for one? It only takes a minute and you will receive..."

"No."

He glanced up and noticed my beet-red, glistening face. He watched my shaky hands attempt to stuff my debit card into the electronic reader. He wisely decided that our conversation had reached its natural conclusion.

I staggered out of the store...thank you, Automatic Doors.

The bagel was still there. I debated its origin story. Did God set it there for me...as a parable (being out of place/in the wrong environment?)...as nourishment (I WAS really hungry). Was it bait? A murder ploy? I took a picture and sent it to my family. 

Is this some sort of trap to sex traffic me? I typed.

Only my son-in-law responded. Only one way to find out. Obviously, he's getting coal for Christmas. Or maybe "Finger Twister."

I made it back to the truck, gasping for air.

I needed help. Let me call my daughters.

Savannah. No answer.

Sydney:  No answer.

Shoot. My options were not good. Joan would tell me to suck it up (and eat some chocolate). Katriel was out of the country. No.

No. No. No. No.

"Hello!" came the bright, bubbly, ridiculously positive voice of Erin who ALWAYS answers my calls because I only call her when I'm dying.

Crying, I hiccuped some of my situation at her. "What do you need?" she asked, now ignoring the noisy bustling going on in her background and focusing entirely on me. "Just. Talk," I gulped.

And she did. I heard about some stupid sporty event. She told me what her father was doing. She explained how she was making a tater-tot dish and sweet chili. I closed my eyes and let her words wash over me. Finally, I mustered the strength to tell her that her tater-tot recipe was wrong and that I don't care about sports. I could feel her smiling through the phone. "You're back!" she chirped. I didn't dare tell her about how I almost ate an abandoned bagel...she would have thrown a complete fit and demanded I drive home immediately. 

As I headed over to visit with my mom, my truck filled with senseless sales items, I reflected on my self-destructive experience. Why...whenever Brad Mosiman leaves...do I turn into a complete (shopping) basket case? And the more important question:  What role did the bagel play in this, not-so-well-rounded and definitely NOT wholesome, day? I sure felt crumby by the end of it. Maybe I do need some therapy to help me with my emotional bagel-age. 

How Erin and I wrecked the halls: The 12 Days of Christmas in interpretive dance

Yet another fiasco that can be attributed to Katriel's selfish decision to vacation in Japan last summer:  The annual elementary Christmas program. 

So, there I was, against my will, at the school summer meeting as Katriel's proxy and the 4th grade representative, seated...reluctantly...next to Erin who has been the director of the Christmas program for the past 14 years.  Who bullies me into participating every year. Who routinely casts me, for no reason that I can understand, as the villain. Maybe, I reflectively wondered, methodically working my way through the snacks my administrator had provided,  I was here for a reason. Maybe, I meditated, pausing to sip a second juice pouch, this was an opportunity to determine my own fate.

I was annoyed to discover that Erin was quite receptive to most of my suggestions (except the one to cancel the program altogether). I stole every idea from the interweb. Easy to implement. No props. No costumes. LOW maintenance. 

I forgot to factor in one important element:

Erin.

Erin. Who likes to be prepared. Who thrives on lists and schedules and communication. Who likes to practice.

Practice what? I asked, grumpily attending one of her millions of unnecessary rehearsals.

And then, suddenly...it was go-time. We were one week out...

Which is when I kick in.

I added three transition skits to bridge our program, I texted Erin.

"Did you text me last night at 2 am?" she asked me the next morning.

"Wouldn't it be nice if we had a slideshow of festive staff pictures rolling on the screen as the children entered the auditorium?" I asked her, less than four days before the performance. "Sure," Erin agreed, "if you think we have time." Boom! Our friend, Jordan popped into gear and set up a display in the faculty room while I stood outside and bulldog-ed people into it. 

"Do you know how to set up a slideshow?" Erin asked dubiously as Katriel tried to avoid making eye contact with me. But, before we knew it, we had two enthusiastic volunteers (Thank you, Jordan and Sarah) so Katriel could concentrate on the rest of the to-do list I had given her. 

We held an easy-going rehearsal the day before the assembly.

As the bell choir concentrated on their music, I screamed at them to smile and act like they were having fun. "Show some flair!" I shouted. "Be dramatic." Certain cast members waiting their turn on stage made unnecessarily derogatory comments about my dramaticism. "It's called directing, " I snapped as Erin stepped in to assure the bell choir that they were perfect and to thank everyone for taking time out of their hectic schedules to provide a magical experience for the children. I choked back some bile as she sweetly piled it on.

The day of the assembly arrived and Erin and I found ourselves frantically composing a hand-written itinerary to list everything we had stuffed into this ridiculous program. "When do we present the "Magic Cups" routine?" I asked. "After the 3rd grade choir performs but before the Gentlemen of Lockwood Elementary do their SNL-inspired act," she said, watching me draw arrows and scribble like crazy. "What about the Rebus puzzle transition?" Erin stared off into space and tilted her Who-ville haired head. "After the 4th grade chorus but before The Twelve-Days-of-Christmas-in-interpretive-dance number," she remembered, before adding, "Good thing we kept this super-simple."

With a few (expected) last minute hitches (We lost our assigned emcee, our principal, because she was
dressed as a goose-a-layin' so our vice principal was just going to have to wing it.), we were ready for the big show.

Erin and I began...knocking out days number one through three which concluded with her leaping onto my back for an energetic KA-KAW for the partridge in a pear tree. It was going to be a LONG song. Day Four signaled a surge of additional actors.

Our cast of characters for The Twelve-Days-of-Christmas-in-interpretive-dance number apparently forgot the beauty of our simple program:  Our no-props, no practice, no problem philosophy flew right out the window. Our calling bird was busy fending off telemarketers from her Fisher Price phone, enticing her to buy an extended warranty (when she could actually GET a signal...she wandered all over the stage, shouting, "Can you hear me NOW?"). Our golden rings kept adding blinding bling throughout the song...plus they deviated from their assigned role to join our "lad-ie" dancing before breaking out some bongos for the drummers drumming. We knew we were really in treble when our actors armed with recorders piped up. Then Erin and I almost got taken out at the knees repeatedly as the swimming swans

swept by on scooters and the geese a-laying were shooting out eggs like a gatlin gun. We had to duck and cover. Our lord a-leapin' stole the show...he should have been cast in "Wicked" because that man could defy gravity! Tyler really seized the moo-ment...looking udderly ridiculous as he commandeered our stool to milk his imaginary cow. 

By the end of the song, we were all exhausted. Fortunately, our audience was equally exhausting from just watching us. 

We were relieved to finally hand over the reins to Santa. We have so much to learn from THAT guy. He rode out on his sleigh to roof-raising roars, waved, and then ho-ho-ho-ed his way out of there. 

I finally made it back to my 4th graders. "Mrs. Mosiman! Did you see Santa? Wasn't he great?" they exclaimed happily. I agreed that Santa was truly spectacular. "What did you think of my performance?" I asked, shamelessly begging for a compliment. "Were you on stage? Did you get to meet him?" they answered, Santa-stars still shining in their eyes. 

Dash it all! That's it...I quit.

My elf-esteem just couldn't handle the cold shoulder. 

"Enough of the resting Grinch face," Erin said, nudging me. "You know we don't do this for the accolades. We do it for the kids. You should feel proud."

I put my arm around her shoulder and pulled her closer. Passers-by smiled as they saw us sharing a warm moment of comradery. Erin leaned in as I whispered in her ear, "Get the elf off my back."

She laughed, "Amy, don't claus a scene."

That's a wrap, everyone.

When to call it a win...

Brad and I visited Mom the day before her birthday. He refrained from comment as I made her hot dog soup recipe and carefully eased her chocolate-frosted angel food cake into the glass display case she'd given me for Christmas decades ago. We placed both items on the floor behind the driver's seat. "Are you sure you don't want to hold onto the cake?" Brad asked cautiously. Driving over an hour balancing a heavy glass cake pedestal did not appeal to me.

The operative word being "balance."

My husband stoically stayed silent as he watched me wrestle the wind for a giant purple balloon adorned with butterflies across the grocery store parking lot. He didn't complain when the balloon blinded his driving periphery and he was forced to rely on my dubious conjectures about whether we were safe to proceed. 

The hot dog soup was met with lackluster enthusiasm. The cake, now spackled to the side of its glass housing, was pried off and consumed politely. But the balloon?!? That was a win. Mom admired it all evening...getting up from her chair repeatedly to spin it around to view it from all sides. She complimented the color and the butterflies. Pleased as punch, I floated out of there. Brad reflected on the time that I had spent agonizing about and preparing for Mom's birthday...when he knew she would have been just as happy with me cutting her up some banana coins and eating microwavable Velveeta macaroni and cheese. 

But it was Mom's birthday and his wife is obsessive so he holds the string loosely...still acting as a tether but letting me exhaust myself with my efforts. He was surprised by the balloon. Vee DeLong is difficult to predict sometimes. 

Still soaring from my success, I decided to call Mom from school the next day and have my class sing "Happy Birthday" to her. We were so excited about this surprise. I put the phone on speaker. We listened to the ring and heard her pick up. "Happy Birthday, Mom!" I exclaimed. "I'm in my classroom right now and the kids want to sing to you."

"Who is this?" she asked sharply.

"Mom, it's Amy. I'm calling to wish you a Happy Birthday."

"It's my birthday?" she asked, confused. Eighteen pairs of eyes were fixed on my face so I had to fake my calm demeanor for them and my mom.

"Mom, Brad and I brought you a balloon yesterday."

"A balloon? Why did you bring me a balloon?" My students were receiving a lesson in real time and the waves of empathy from them washed over me as they watched me try to spin this epic loss into a somewhat weak win. 

"Mom, would you please look at your TV for me? Right next to it is your balloon. Do you see it?"

Her voice suddenly changed and my room could breathe again. "Oh! Is it purple?"

I smiled. "Yes. Brad and I brought it over last night to celebrate your birthday a day early."

"That was so nice," she told me, "Are those butterflies on it? It's so pretty!"

"Mom, my 4th graders are here with me and they'd like to sing to you. Is that okay?

My mom's kind nature filtered through the phone. "Of course. I'd love to hear them."

My honeys sang earnestly to my mom and we could hear her trying to clap one-handed as they concluded. "They sounded so nice," Mom said, "Thank you."

We all said good-bye and I proclaimed it a "W." 

"She didn't know you," one of my sweethearts commented sadly. I blame myself 100%. I call Mom every day at 6 pm so a morning call would, of course, throw her off. We were on speaker phone which changes the sound clarity of my voice. I should have also factored in the confusing conglomeration of winter holidays that follow Daylight Savings...Thanksgiving, her birthday, and Christmas are just ordinary days for her...days/weeks/months melt together and only the seasons seem to stick. 

I wasn't prepared for the phone call later in the week when I encountered my indignant mother asking me why I didn't bother to call or visit her for her birthday.

Normally, I live in her reality. Adapting and adjusting to how she is feeling. Recently, our daily 6 o'clock phone dates have been met with her commenting that I'm "late" and how she's been waiting for, and worrying about, me. Daylight Savings makes it dark earlier and that darkness has become Mom's clock. With no discernible routine or even just a reliable TV show that she could count on to remember, she thinks it's time for bed when it gets dark. I don't adjust my phone call time in the hopes that it'll keep her up a bit longer and simply tell her each time that I'm "late" that I'll do better next time.

But I couldn't let her live in THIS reality. A reality where she thinks I didn't care about her on her birthday. Fighting the knot in my throat and the punch to the gut that her accusation had brought me, I light-heartedly questioned her. "Oh my goodness! Do you actually think that I'm such a terrible person that I would forget my own mother, whom I love more than anything in the world, on her birthday?" I exclaimed dramatically. My mother smothered a laugh at my theatrics. "You are not a terrible person," she told me. "Well, apparently I am or I wouldn't have brought you that purple balloon floating by your TV for your birthday," I countered.

There was silence on the phone as I waited for her to look and re-discover the best twelve dollar purchase I've ever made.

"Is it purple?" she asked.

"Yup," I crowed, triumphantly. "And it's covered in butterflies!"

"It's so pretty," she said. 

"Not as pretty as my mama," I told her, wiping tears off my cheeks as I thanked God for this small win.

By now, Brad Mosiman had been gripping that string pretty hard...fighting the urge to reel it in. My mother has open-access to my heart and Brad Mosiman rarely cards her. He is her biggest champion in all things...except when that demon-directed dementia aims at his wife. He is gentle and kind and always observant to Mom's needs and frustrations. Only once has he corrected her and that was when she vented her anger at me. I will happily be my mother's punching bag but Brad Mosiman wheeled his chair across the room and sat knee-to-knee with her. Quietly, he pointed at me, sitting next to my mom. "You know how much she loves you and would never hurt you?" he asked her. She nodded. He patted her knee and rolled away. 

So, as Thanksgiving approached...Brad Mosiman began shortening up, and even cutting, some strings. 

I had gone squirreling up in the attic...ducking beneath the sloped ceiling to unearth the tote containing my mother's fancy dishes that she had only used for special occasions. A box containing a dozen canning jars stood between me and success. Half-way between a squat and a lunge, I grabbed the box to make a half-turn delivery and immediately registered my mistake. Brad discovered me an hour later, frozen like a statue...immobile and in pain. "I have never canned a day in my life," I cried, "Why do we have these?"

After carefully extracting me (and my mother's plates) from my little expedition, Brad Mosiman began to abbreviate some of my big plans.  Snip. He traded the traditional turkey for a grocery-store rotisserie chicken. He peeled potatoes. Snip. He packed a jar of gravy in the bag. He didn't complain as I went to dig out my mom's nesting bowls that had belonged to her mother...he just nudged me out of the way so he could retrieve them for me. Snip-snip.

Mom didn't notice that the turkey was actually chicken.

Win for Brad.

She didn't remember the bowls but enjoyed the stories surrounding them...how she used the biggest yellow bowl for her delicious mac salad with crunchy celery in the summer and filled it with her incredible fruit salad with extra maraschino cherries at Thanksgiving and Christmas. 

I'm calling it a win. Brad wasn't so sure.

Mom didn't remember her plates but exclaimed over how pretty they were... admiring their opaque mother-of-pearl sheen.

Win.

Having a husband who so genuinely cares about my mother.

Win.

Every moment, good and bad, that I share with my mother.

Win. Win. Win.

 

A Pearl of Wisdom (& sacrifice): A not-so-hidden historic gem in December

Teaching in December brings about its own unique challenges. Theme days are fun. Nothing screams "Professional Educator" more than a woman dressed like Tweedle Dee. Of course, this same sophisticated pedagogue was on stage in November outfitted to resemble a roll of toilet paper so December is not completely to blame for that. 

Teachers are at the very peak of a steep, slippery slide following Thanksgiving. Not those 2024 eco-friendly safety slides....  No. I am referring to the 70s slides that would either scorch or shave skin from the backs of your thighs as you went screaming down the steel incline to then be pummeled into the dirt. Just climbing the wrought iron ladder was to take your life into your hands. It was like a circus performer ascending to the high dive platform while your caring adults were either smoking Salems on the bench, oblivious to your imminent peril or, even better, home on the couch watching "Days of Our Lives," not even wondering where you were. When you reached the top, there was a line of eager kids behind you, clinging like leeches to that ladder, either physically pushing you or verbally taunting you so that you didn't have a chance to reflect upon your questionable life choices. Like becoming a teacher.

In December, you make plans so that they can be interrupted, postponed, or cancelled. Your allotted
fifteen minutes scheduled for a cute Christmas craft takes two hours and you go home that day with hot glue burns on both hands, glitter in your eyes, and hatred in your heart. 

But that drive to teach still flickers...

To commemorate the anniversary of Pearl Harbor, Room 14 reviewed FDR's edited speech and discussed the impact of just the right word. We listened to his "Infamy" speech. We watched an educational video discussing that horribly historic day and the events leading to it. And then we assigned parts to perform a Reader's Theater rendition of some of Pearl Harbor's heroic moments. 

Through the magic of the written word, we were on board the USS Oklahoma just as it was struck when the first phone call interrupted us.

"Blah, blah, blah, blah."

"Yes, thank you," I replied and then returned to my quiet class.

The Oklahoma had just flipped upside down when the second phone call came.

"Blah, blah, blah, blah."

"Yes, thank you," I replied and returned to my 4th graders, perched on the edge of their seats.

The lights went out as a handful of men began treading water in a small compartment. We were with Junior Officer Adolph Mortensen as he took a deep breath and then dove underwater, groping for a port hole. He wrestled it open and began shoving his companions to safety. The phone rang. I paused. We were worried about Warrant Officer John Austin. He weighed over 200 pounds.

Sighing, I answered the phone. My 4th graders watched me intently as I listened for a long time. "I'm sorry," I said, finally interrupting my caller, "I think you have me mistaken for someone else." I spent another five minutes explaining to her that her phone directory was outdated and an additional minute providing her with the correct extension.

"He's not going to make it, is he?" a small voice asked. I shook my head sadly. We discussed sacrifice. Courage. Selflessness. The Friday Prize Cart arrived before we could continue. Our routine drum-roll was a little lackluster but we dutifully celebrated our selected student. The door was barely shut behind the cart before we resumed the play...once again, transporting ourselves back in time. 

There was only a foot of space remaining between the rising water and the floor-that-was-now-their-ceiling. Blinded by darkness, filled with fear...Mortensen and Austin took one last breath and dove for the porthole...Austin guiding his friend out of the torpedoed vessel, forever remaining behind.

Room 14 sat in stunned silence. The weight of our world had descended upon the tiny shoulders of my 9-year-old students. 

And then Santa walked into the room.

Bringing some much needed fresh air that, thankfully, breathed life back into Room 14. 

Santa moon-walked his way around the desks and lifted the sunken spirits of my students. They cheered and clapped and giggled...like children should in December. History is important but can sometimes weigh you down. Remembering Pearl Harbor in this season of good cheer and giving reminds us of how much we have to be grateful for and provides some much-needed perspective. Maybe that slide isn't as steep as we imagine and a little glitter isn't that much of an inconvenience. Thank you and God bless to all of our military heroes...past AND present. You have given us an incredible gift.

What did the puffball say to the tiny toadstool? (You're a fun guy!)

 I cannot account for my obsession but, over the years, it has simply mushroomed out of control.

Somehow, to my utter delight, my yard plays host to Calvatia gigantea (giant puffball mushrooms) and I maniacally monitor their safety and well-being over the course of their growth period.

This year, we were blessed with three.

I would mark my little baby belugas with orange traffic cones to alert my lawn maintenance man of their presence. 

I lovingly tracked their growth progress and shared daily updates with my family across the country. I considered live-streaming the mushrooms but my kids insisted that they really looked forward to the newsletters.

They just make me happy.  Good days or bad, I would sit reflectively by my baby balls of mozzarella and just reflect. "Where are you?" Brad asked as I chatted with him over the phone. "Home," I answered. "But I just heard a tractor go by. Are you outside?" he inquired, puzzled. His wife was NOT an outdoor gal. "I'm sitting by my puffball," I explained. "Oh. Of course," he said, mystery solved.

For the betterment of education, I decided to donate one of my babies to my classroom so we could scientifically chronicle the decomposition of the mushroom. We used sensory observation to describe the puffball...stroking its smooth exterior, thumping it carefully...observing as its milky white color began to yellow...smelling its earthy aroma until a week later...the smell forced us to re-locate it to the courtyard where we'd peek out the window at it and visit it after lunch. A new student enrolled during this process...the poor kid could not initially understand why we were so excited to race out to look at, touch, and smell a shriveling up, spongy-textured fungus but, eventually, he got on board. 

The pay-off was HUGE on the day "it" was ready! The next stage of our scientific inquiry was to witness the spore dispersal. One lucky student was chosen to leap onto our puffball; disappearing magically as he unleashed a brownish-green cloud. Excited shrieks filled the courtyard before we traipsed back into Room 14 to journal our experience.

It had been gratifying to donate one of my precious puffballs to such a meaningful academic endeavor. Besides, I still had two puffball pals with which to commune.

Until...

Brad and I had been wrestling the cover on our boat...an activity that really showcases our marital harmony...when an unfamiliar truck pulled up and a man walked towards us. 

"I noticed your puffballs," he said, upon his approach. (Yes, I realize in a different situation, this could come off as quite the suggestive pick-up line...get your minds out of the gutter!) I shot my husband a look. I knew we should have built a protective fence around them. For goodness sake...they were so big at this point, you could see them from space. I had been warning Brad for WEEKS that we were just setting ourselves up for an eventual puffball abduction.  I did not respond in a neighborly fashion. "Yeah?" I said, wishing I had some chewing tobacco so I could spit casually on the ground in a threatening manner. "Do you like them?" he asked. What a stupid question. Before I could rudely snap at this stranger, Brad intervened, explaining, that, yes, his wife was quite fond of them. Clearly disappointed, the man nodded. "My family loves to eat them. They are a rare treat." He thanked us before heading back to his truck. 

Brad looked at me.

I sighed. And then went after the man and led him to my precious puffballs. (Stop giggling. Immature.)

He was appropriately awe-struck, exclaiming over their size, texture, and milky-white color. This was a man who clearly appreciated puffballs. (Stop. It.) I graciously (outwardly, at least) offered him the smaller of the two remaining mushrooms.

And then there was one.

How I treasured each moment.

But, alas, time is fleeting and, too soon, it was time for my puffball to move on.

I raced home from school on that warm October day...pulled on my tall muck boots and stood, for the last time, next to my mini-moon. Brad stood by, ready with the camera. We waited for traffic to go by before I made one small leap for womankind. Suddenly, a van pulled up. "Whatcha doin' Mrs. Mosiman?" yelled the teen-age driver, a former student. He was ferrying his younger siblings home. I waved to El, whom I had had last year. 

Brad looked at me.

I sighed. And, in the name of education, took a leap...and unleashed a torrent of tiny spores that will hopefully take root in my yard again next fall. The van erupted in applause and I laughed in my lawn, tromping through the remains...ripped pieces of attic insulation...each releasing mini-mushroom clouds.  

When the air cleared, I took a deep breath, waving as my audience drove away. 

"That was fun," Brad said, smiling as I surveyed our now empty lawn. I nodded, a little sad. "It's hard to see them go," I told him, "because they took up so mush-room in my heart."

How do you unlock the secret of running a successful assembly on bathroom manners? With a doo-key!

 I have often been asked about some of the odd and/or outlandish activities of which I sometimes find myself engaged in at school...with people wondering why I participate in such antics. "It's my duty," I respond, with my usual humbled conviction to my craft.

But never so much as on Friday.

First and fourth grade teams have historically been yoked together to host the initial grade level character building assembly of the year. It's a LOT of pressure. Shoot too low and you are ridiculed mercilessly for your lack of effort and creativity. Aim for the stars and you are persecuted for setting the bar too high. We learned back in July that we were to be assigned the very auspicious...very dignified...classy topic of bathroom manners. After some strident and indignant arguing, it was decided (for me) that the best course of action was simply to just hold our breath and hope for the best.

It was time to get down to business.

Naturally, we were a bit down in the dumps during our first meeting. This was not the ideal topic in which we wished to showcase our talents. "You don't suppose that there is a costume..." I mused, typing doubtfully on my phone. You betcha, there was. From there, you couldn't stop the flow of ideas. 

Occasionally, we'd get stalled or there'd be a clog in the creative flow...but soon, things were running smoothly. The team threw up a real stink at one point when decided we needed ten plungers for an engaging activity for the children. "I am NOT purchasing ten plungers," one of our crew stated decisively. We briefly debated all of us buying one but I finally volunteered to take on that heavy load. "Urine good hands," I assured everyone. "I won't let you down."

The next step was getting our good-natured cleaner on board the potty train. Naturally, she was quite receptive to ANY idea that might get kids aiming to improve their bathroom behavior. I explained our idea to her.

"You know how, if you are in the clutches of a serial killer, you are supposed to personalize yourself with him...drill your name into his head...build a relationship?"

Christy nodded. Working as a school cleaner was as close to being in the clutches of a serial killer as you can get. Except she was in the clutches of hundreds of pint-sized serial killers...all intent on destroying your will to live. 

And that was how our little movie was made.

Now...I don't actually fancy myself a commode-ian, but, me, dressed up as a giant toilet paper roll, earnestly interviewing Miss Christy in the lavatory about her life-long vendetta against germs as she toils endlessly to model respectful, responsible, and safe behavior was definitely some Academy Award winning $h!}. The unnecessary but entertaining concluding montage that was triggered with the flush of a toilet, the startling appearance of a grinning kid who announced that the toilet paper had just run out, was underscored by the theme song from the old Benny Hill show as Miss Christy chased me up and down the halls. 

The day of the ASSembly arrived. There was no need to be nervous. We had everything covered.

My friend Jordan and I introduced the program. She was flawlessly professional. Comedically brilliant. Personally, I was feeling flushed. If ever there was a time to wet myself from nervousness...this would be it. I kept tripping over my toilet paper train. The first grade team held up letter tiles to spell out our mnemonic word to help students remember the steps to keeping the bathroom safe and clean:  FLUSH. We had had it planned that they would intentionally spell it wrong several times to give students a chance to guess our word. I watched as two of our teachers realized that the "f" and the "u" should not be neighbors and immediately re-positioned themselves on stage. I giggled as I watched the show. Good thing that they hadn't tried making the word "poo." They might have only ended up with "p" because they were missing some bowels!

We successfully made it to the end of the assembly. We said words into microphones that no grown women should EVER have to utter. We created visual pictures in the minds of our audience that will NEVER be erased. We made our physical education coaches and pre-schoolers laugh so we know that we were pretty much on target. And, for one brief shining moment, dressed ridiculously as a roll of toilet paper, I was the life of the potty.

Hanging on by a thread: Buy American

 Fifty-four years old and I am still struggling to develop a personal fashion flair. I may have aged out of my snarky t-shirts and jeans phase but have yet to firmly land on a signature style.  My friend Michelle gently recommended printed pants. I'm leaning more towards international attire. How I envy the swag of my sisters across the sea...the kimono, the shalwar kameez, and yes, as free-will determines...the burka. Long. Cool. Flowing. Forgiving. Comfortable. Camouflaging. 

Imagine my delight when I discovered such a gracious garment available for an outrageously affordable amount. My inclination to "Buy American" was overshadowed by the lure of low prices and misspelled promised quality. I made my purchase courtesy of the People's Republic of China and eagerly awaited its arrival.

Soon, my ankles were swimming in a smooth, silk-like material. My waist reveled within the loving embrace of an elastic waistband.  Any bulges were rendered barely noticeable. I was a nylon ninja. A synthetic fabric-ed fashionista. 

I skipped happily off to school, responding to compliments with a kick and a twirl. 

I was unhindered by my fears of flashing back fat to an unsuspecting passerby. I could crouch like a hidden tiger and out-stretch a snake.

Mid-day brought a morbid discovery.

During my lunch-time constitution, I found myself in a position to view the interior of my pants and
could not, for the life of me, understand what on earth I was looking at. Why could I see the floor through my slacks, I wondered. My breath suddenly hitched. How long had the seat of my pants been completely blown out by what looked like a cannonball?

I wormed my way to my room to collect an alternative wardrobe. During my nonchalant walk of shame back to the restroom, I, of course, ran into my friend, Tyler, who decided today was the day for an hour-long discussion on WHO KNOWS WHAT because I was just trying desperately to change my clothes. 

Later, my students barely noticed my transformation although some did express delight over my Field Day shirt depicting me as Medusa. My "I've never actually worked out in them" work-out pants were just as comfortable as my previous outfit with the one BIG advantage that there wasn't an unadvertised back-door flap.  Any pretense of looking professional had long since unraveled. Dignity had disappeared. The only thing left to cling to was modesty and my flag. 

What's my message? Buy American.

Brad Mosiman got up at the quack of dawn and STILL managed to carve our pumpkin!

 I am a holiday humbug.

Given the choice, I would avoid them ALL.

I don't know what spirit-sucking demon possesses me but the closer I come to an occasion, the deeper my desire to bury myself in blankets and ride the revelry out in silence and solitude.

Brad Mosiman adores holidays. Despite the knowledge that I am going to ruin each and every one of them, he approaches celebrations with such sincerity and sweet sentimentality that it makes me the clear villain in every televised Mosiman holiday special. 

It was the day before Halloween and our pumpkin had not yet been butchered. Oops...wrong holiday. I mean, carved. Wait. Don't you carve a turkey, too? Doesn't matter. You know what I mean. The gourd had not yet been gouged.

Brad Mosiman had left for work at 3 am. He returned home around 5:30 pm. He looked longingly to the darkening October skies and sighed. "I'm going to walk down to the pond quick to see if there are any ducks there," he told me. And that's when I rallied. I would not ruin another holiday for my poor, hard-working husband.

Grasping a large metal spoon and a knife in my fist, I plucked my pumpkin from its perch on my front porch and lugged it around to the back yard. As I staggered under the weight of my load, I was startled to meet Brad coming out of the garage. "What do you think you're doing?" he asked, frowning. "I was going to surprise you," I told him, "When you came back from the pond, you would have been greeted by the flickering smile of your carved pumpkin."

Brad Mosiman looked longingly to the darkening October skies and sighed. He lifted the pumpkin from my arms and carried it down to the field. He rolled his eyes at my carving option and broke out a high-powered gizmo, making short work of gutting our pumpkin. I stood by helpfully, should he need assistance. 

I followed him back up to the garage where he then handed me a Sharpie to draw a design. I considered my canvas. "It's got gook on it," I observed. Sighing again, Brad wiped the guts off of the pumpkin. 

My husband carefully cut out my design. "Could you please hold the pumpkin steady instead of taking pictures?" he asked, patiently. Pumpkin pieces fell to the floor and I bravely picked them up. 

We (he) carried our masterpiece to its place of honor on our front sidewalk.

It was now pitch black. Brad sighed.

"All we need is a candle," he told me.

I stared at him. Oh. Forgot about that part. I searched my stock. Not a votive in the stack. I grabbed a pillared candle better suited for a candelabra from "The Phantom of the Opera," and used my carving knife to hack it down to size. 

Somehow, we managed to get our pumpkin lit.

"Wasn't this fun?" I asked him as he suppressed a tired yawn. He nodded, "Tons." I smiled happily. I did it. I hadn't ruined Halloween for my husband this year. I had made it magical.  "Aren't you glad we found time to carve our pumpkin?" I continued. "Oh yeah," he agreed, "I couldn't imagine a better time to do it."

Feline fine: 4th grade team's group costume was a roaring success

Halloween is not considered "child's play" in the 4th grade. 

A great deal of brain-storming and discussion is involved in costume planning along with the annual student flash mob theme and music.

One Halloween is barely over before planning for the next Halloween begins...

It's supposed to be a group effort but lately...it's been three-against-me.

I began tossing out ideas over the summer...biding my time for when inspiration truly struck. My team-mates dismissed each suggestion with casual indifference...like they had anything better to do in July than to think about which ridiculous costume they would be donning in October. 

But when our first official team meeting was scheduled in September, I was ready with an idea so iconic...so trendy...so original...that we would make Halloween history. 

"Caitlyn Clark," I announced, mentally prepared to be picked up and placed on the youthful shoulders of my team-mates and paraded around for my utter brilliance and creativity. 

Instead...I was greeted with dead silence and...I must have been mistaken...did they side-eye one another as though I were a daft idiot?

I must have been selling this wrong. They weren't getting it. "One person will be Caitlyn," I explained, "while another one of us will be a giant inflatable basketball. Another person can be the posted basketball net (I showed a helpful picture to help them visualize this amazing scene) while the last person could be a ref." 

"No, we get it, Amy," I was told just before I heard the 4th quarter buzzer go off, signaling my loss.

Before I knew it, I was re-routed off the road to the Final Four and detoured over to some new construction where they were laying some yellow bricks.

Speaking of paving stones...

I sighed. I was effortlessly tossing 3-pointers and my team was launching bricks.

But you know me...always trying to make the best of things...a true team player. So, I pivoted.

Naturally...I would be the witch. My disposition alone guaranteed it. My extensive theater background began in grade school as a flying monkey before I was bestowed the broom in my high school play. My laugh was legendary.

But before I could boast of my witchy resume, Allison shared how she was related to the original Wicked Witch of the West, the legendary Margaret Hamilton...dashing my dreams of petrifying my pupils. 

"I'll be the Swearcrow," I volunteered, again...trying to be a team player.

"You already have a lion costume," I was told, "You can be the Cowardly Lion."

It was getting harder and harder to keep a paws-itive attitude here.

So what if I simmer in that suit like a slow-roasting stew? So what if children relentlessly pull my tail and confuse me with a bear? So what if I am seen in that stupid suit every March as I prance around the bus loop with Erin to commemorate the fickle weather related to the third month of the year? I'm happy to be sweaty, bullied and redundant for the good of my team.

The big day arrived. I reluctantly stuffed myself into that suit, grabbed my mini-fan, and pranced my way along the parade route...paw-sing for high-fives, pouncing on preschoolers, posing for pictures. 

It was time for the Grande Finale:  The Annual 4th Grade Flash Mob.

We had been practicing for weeks and had all our moves down cold.

The toss the leaves into the air.

The pound your chest like a gorilla.

The door/door, floor floor move.

I slid into place and glanced around. I spotted the slew of inflatable costumes including Room 14's very own trio of dinosaurs. While I was a saturated sponge at the moment, I realized that I could be attempting the invisible arrow launch bound within the confines of an inflated basketball. Say what you will, at least the lion costume has give. And give it did...when my velcro-back blew out when the Atlas: Weight-of-the-world-on-your-shoulders move cued up. I was grateful that I hadn't followed through with my threat of going commando under the sauna suit.

So much for mane-taining my dignity.

I wish I was lion.

 

Thistle be the best day ever: What a knit-wit!

 It is difficult to ignore the changing landscape behind my house. Trees that my family planted twenty-five years ago--plucked from the ground like carrots from a garden. The stream where we once waded is now being re-routed. Hills are smoothed flat like a wrinkled blanket. My once-busy bird feeders stood empty while their confused occupants rapidly filled out FEMA forms. Deer, fox, and pheasants filed their own Forward Mail slips before dashing off. Bulldozers and excavators packing thousands of years of eroded evolution into mere months. Mankind and machinery molding mountains into mole-hills. 

Brad returned from a walk to enlist my services for a rescue mission. The pond has been cut off from its connecting stream and a fish had been left stranded. Grabbing his fishing net, Brad invited me along as he started up the 4-wheeler. Assuming that this was a Point A to Point B mission, I ignored Brad's suggestion to change my clothes. My soft knit sweater and comfy romper were perfect for this mild Autumn day.

I was surprised when we roared past our usual route to the far end of the pond...a wild, thorny-roped entrance...a dark,  dangerous, jungle path slanted at an alarming angle. Naturally, I leaped off the 4-wheeler while Brad attempted to ram through the obstacle like a mad bull. Seeing my husband caught in the clutches of sharp, splintered branches, I waded in, using my back and shoulders to free him to inch forward. We were stabbed repeatedly on this painful journey, the trees trying to wrestle my net away from me, blood running down my calves.

Finally, we broke free. Now we had to traverse the war-torn terrain, abandoning our 4-wheeler to slide  down ditches and stumble over cratered soil to find this floundering fish. He was in poor shape...caught easily in our net. As I watched Brad release him back into the safety of the pond, I realized my vision of a "Free Willy" moment...a shiny, silvery body breaking the water's surface to leap clear of its unjust prison into sweet freedom...was not going to happen. Our musical accompaniment would not be a swelling crescendo of triumph but a melancholy melody of resigned relief. I hope he recovered.

We are all the sum of our decisions. 

Leave the pond to brave a stream to an unknown destination? 

Not a great choice. 

When given the option to ride the 4-wheeler back up that insane incline or hoof it home myself, I chose my own two able feet. 

Also, not a great choice. 

My soft knits were a welcoming magnet to every bramble, thistle, sticker and pricker in the area. My soft flesh was a canvas of cuts, scratches, and welts. I finally tossed caution to the side and fully committed myself to escape. The music...muted, beleaguered...started to increase in tempo...harmony and a hallelujah choir began as an opening appeared. Imprisoned in prickers, Amy Mosiman, human porcupine, leaped free of this prisonous field of fiendish floral and fauna to be greeted by my stunned husband, waiting for me at the top of the hill.

Naturally, I blamed Brad.

My cozy sweater and roomy romper were ruined.

Fixer-of-all-things, Brad Mosiman is refusing to accept defeat. Cue musical accompaniment as we spend the next few WEEKS plucking thistles from a knit sweater. "Thank you for helping me," I told him, not really wanting to trash my cute cardigan. Gripping the tweezers, Brad squinted at my sweater as he relentlessly plucked prickers from the fabric. He glanced up to look at me. "You're wool-come."