It's important to get off on the right foot each morning so as to set the proper mood for the day. I thought I might be onto something this time as I successfully restrained my natural impulse to scream at Sydney during our long four-mile commute to school as we careened around "Dead Man's Curve" on two wheels, stopped several feet into the intersection, and rode the meridian line like a Cirque de Soleil tightrope aerialist. Exiting the truck, I silently congratulated myself as I unfurled my tightened fists and expelled the scream-air I'd imprisoned in my lungs. I heard my name and, searching for the source, I was surprised to see a school bus idling in front of me. "Mrs. Mosiman...whah...whah...whah...whah." Apparently Charlie Brown's teacher had taken up retirement work piloting children to and from school. "What?" I stepped closer. Apparently this was a fan who wished to bestow a compliment upon me. "Mrs. Mosiman," the bus driver said, peering down at me, "the dragon in the elementary play was..." What? I was standing in the middle of a busy bus loop utterly confused by this cryptic message. The driver, obviously a perturbed grandma, persisted, "Your article for the Courier? You wrote the wrong name. The dragon was...." Oh. Ok. I made a mistake and it was necessary to pull over a bus to tell me. I staggered to the sidewalk towards the school to begin my day.
What is it with the Mosiman woman that society feels compelled to constantly correct us? Yesterday, as we prepared for our upcoming Memorial Day week-end fishing trip, Savannah and I loaded our grocery cart with $300 worth of nutritious snacks. My daughter didn't even blink an eye when I tossed specially-treated campfire wood onto the pile. Her understanding nature could possibly be traced to the moment that I pretended not to notice the giant bin of brightly-colored sour gummi worms that she tucked between the pretzel M&Ms and s'more-making materials. As we wobbled our way to check-out with our improvised Jenga of junk food, I realized that Brad's case of adult beverages would not fit in this puzzle. Savannah carried it carefully to the conveyor belt when a bus suddenly pulled up. "Excuse me," my confused daughter was asked, "are you 21?" "No," replied Savannah, frowning, her arms growing tired of trying to please her father, help her mother, while staying within the ridiculously established perimeters of her state, "but my mother is." My nineteen-year-old daughter gestured towards me, standing within fourteen inches of her next to a car payment's worth of groceries. As Savannah and I continued to look confused and slightly disgusted, it was further explained to us that the store was in jeopardy of losing its license should Savannah continue to carry the beer. I handed the beer to the under-aged clerk while Savannah seethed.
One word to the world today: relax a little bit. In the meantime, I'll just wait for the next bus to pull up.
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