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.