Mason was here

After a week of laying motionless on my couch, my unblinking eyes plastered to the television, I mustered just enough energy to slither out the door to head to the school for some "planning." "Planning" is actually code for "sit motionless in the classroom with my unblinking eyes plastered to the computer monitor." Without my daily routine, I lacked the motivation to function. How was I going to be a teacher again, I wondered as I walked dejectedly into my darkened room. But then I sensed it...a presence...a ghostly aura of encouragement. There was something on my desk, I saw, approaching it with wondrous awe. Mason was here, he had written, leaving good tidings of great joy in his wake as I ripped into the 2-liter of Pepsi like Popeye tearing into his can of trusty spinach.  Mason was here...a theological statement belying the laws that govern time and geography. He was here...my beloved, easy-smiling boy with a mind made for numbers...until circumstances beyond my control pulled him away (I couldn't, in good conscience, retain him and, despite my strongly-worded warning addressed to the governor of Alabama, Mason was still permitted to move to that area ). Mason was here...literally...to visit family for the holiday and graciously remembering his former (never use "old"...ALWAYS "former") 4th grade teacher to bring her what she most needed at this time: encouragement. Mason was here...and when he walked out of my door last June, a small part of me went with him, a symbiotic side-note that will revel in his contributions and achievements. Clutching a chocolate covered marshmallow Santa in my hand, I turned again to my computer monitor, revived and restored. Mason was here...they were ALL here, I realized. I better get ready.

Sticking it to my friends at Christmas

It has already been well-established that I am a TERRIBLE gift-giver and this holiday season was certainly no exception. In an attempt to avoid the clichéd coffee mug, candy or candle route with my colleagues, I thought I'd hit upon a sure-proof plan by sticking with whatever theme we'd dressed as for Halloween which is why, last year, my friend, Kelly-Nichol-Dime got saddled with a Princess Leia bobblehead. Obviously, a gift that denotes great care and devotion. 

This year was a shoe-in, I thought as I began the search for Gilligan's Island-related memorabilia. Not as easy as one might think. After hours of careful Google-sifting, I finally settled on a classic, vintage-style magnet for all the members of our costumed clan. I fearlessly pushed "submit" and eagerly awaited the arrival of my perfect present. And waited. And waited. Wait! Does the rumored Christmas mail delivery back-log actually exist? The count-down to Christmas break was on and there I was, with no perfect present. I awoke on the last day in a panic. "Savannah," I said, shaking my daughter awake while dodging the heavy college textbook she aimed at my head, "if my package arrives in the mail, would you please bring it to the school?" 

It was a miserable day as I watched the minutes tick by on the clock and received             un-reciprocatable presents from my thoughtless friends. Finally, at the end of the day, as I trudged back from the festive holiday pageant, I spotted Savannah outside my classroom door. I squinted at the practically microscopic envelope that she held in her hand. "No," I whispered, "no, no, no, no, no." I ripped the envelope from her hand and out slid eight tiny classic, vintage-style PINS. "They're buttons," I howled, "Who's going to wear a classic, vintage-style BUTTON?!?" But there was no going back now...I frantically taped each in place upon my inspirational Christmas card with the disclosure message:  It was suppose to be a magnet. Then came the walk of shame. 

Thanks for the adorable automatronic singing dachshund accompanied by your delicious home-backed goodies that you slaved over for days...here's your classic, vintage-style microscopic pin.

Thanks for the gourmet chocolates...here's your classic, vintage-style microscopic pin. 

Thanks for the Vera Bradley wallet...here's your classic, vintage-style microscopic pin. 

Thanks for the listening to me complain for over a year about how I haven't seen "Pitch Perfect" yet and going out to buy me the movie...here's your classic, vintage-style microscopic pin. 

Next year...coffee mugs for EVERYONE!

Mouse-trapped: A Macabre Tail

It was a scene right out of Edgar Allen Poe's "The Telltale Heart." I was sitting in a learning circle when there came a knocking at my classroom door. The children and I froze. Sure enough, the knock came again. "Who is it," my voice, wavering with uncertainty, called out. We held our breath, awaiting the answer. It could be administration. It could be the fire inspector (although a glance at my emergency exit window brought me momentary relief). "It is I, Mrs. Bush," cried Mrs. Bush, clawing at the door, "Will you bid me 'enter'?" We rushed to her aid, drawing her out of the dark and dismal corridor from which she'd come, burdened by an awkward object. I gasped, growing faint upon the sight of it...a ghostly specter...pestilence from my past.

Seven years ago, to enliven a tale, I'd murdered a mouse and, today, I would be reunited with my crime. How had I convinced my husband to build a three foot long mousetrap, I wondered as I watched Mrs. Bush wrestle it onto my table. And how on earth did I ever manage to successfully affix that atrocity to a bulletin board as the table creaked alarmingly beneath its weight? "We found this in the back of the closet in your old 6th grade classroom," Mrs. Bush said breathlessly, "and we knew that you would want it back." My blank expression masked my true feelings as my students discovered the "Press Me" sticker on the mouse's little paw. It couldn't possibly still work, I thought to myself but a sick compulsion came over me and I was driven forward like Alice toward the sign inviting her to "Eat me." A paw was pinched and the mouse began to writhe morbidly in his trap, sickly singing, "Ho ho ho...ho, ho ho...We are Santa's elves...ho, ho!" The children cheered with delight. Mrs. Bush offered me a little wave before disappearing back into the catacombs of the institute. Like the mouse, I was trapped...forever tied to a prop with boomerang effects and a seemingly infinite battery life. It will take a licking and keep on ticking...or "ho, ho, ho-ing,"  louder and louder, until I go mad. "Villain-ess,"  I shrieked after the retreating form of Mrs. Bush, but she was unable to hear me over the sick singing of the murdered mouse.

Oh dear...oh deer

http://northwesternkiddies.blogspot.ca/2012/12/merry-christmas.html

It all began several months ago when my husband and I were walking into Target and I spotted them...every teacher's dream:  giant googly eyes. I immediately launched myself across the store and landed on them as though I were shielding a group of orphans from the blast of a grenade. As this wasn't completely unusual behavior for me, Brad only looked moderately embarrassed as he peeled me off of the ONLY remaining package of googly eyes in the entire store.

"What are you going to do with a giant pair of googly eyes," he asked tiredly, not thrilled to be spending three of his valuable dollars on what he doesn't necessarily view as "educational" material. I stared at him, dumbfounded. Who was this man? Didn't he KNOW me AT ALL?!? What WOULDN'T I do with a giant pair of googly eyes? Needless to say, I was NOT going to leave that store without them and was prepared to throw a great big ol' hissy fit, if necessary. Turns out, it wasn't necessary. Remember...this is the same man who constructed an R2D2 costume for his nearly 6 foot tall wife for Halloween. It may take some wheedling on my part, but he usually comes around to the creative genius that IS Amy Mosiman.

What WAS I going to do with a giant pair of googly eyes, I wondered, alone in my classroom, rubbing my hands together gleefully. Ah-ha! I dug out my December "Dear Future Amy" letter from last year.

                                                     

Dear Future Amy, (it read)

You are such a good-looking gal! Remember NOT to make cheese-string

 snowmen again next year because it gave you a big fat headache trying to 

hot glue on all their little hats. You also burned your fingers and cried a little. 

Also, if you ever run into a giant pair of googly eyes, grab them so you can 

make the deer decoration that you found for your classroom door.

So with giant eyeballs in hand, I wrestled a reindeer on my door. Perfect, I sighed.  Wrong. The first person walked by to admire my efforts. "Why is it upside down," she asked, twisting her head while I clenched my teeth, wanting to twist her neck. I explained the premise of my dim-witted deer to her.  The next person approached. "That's cute," she said while I beamed. "What IS it?" Was I going to need to add a captioned translation to my door? Three times a charm, I thought to myself as the next person came towards me. I braced for the worst. "Funny," my colleague nodded and my spirits soared. "But shouldn't it be saying Oh deer?" "No," I screeched. "If the door were captioned, it would say Oh deer because it would be remarking about the exploits of the silly deer who accidentally fell while hanging holiday lights. BUT, since the deer is the one speaking, he would say Oh dear because it's an exclamatory sentence!!!" My fellow educator regarded me silently, nodded once, shrugged her shoulders and walked off. I stomped into my room and slammed my door. Good grief! Why don't I listen to my husband?

Squatty McBush: The Prickly Pine

 Every year I think that it will turn out differently. Some day, I secretly yearn, we will be like a normal family. Almost immediately though, my hopes were dashed as we drove, in separate vehicles, to the Christmas tree farm like we were casual friends meeting at a coffee shop. We'd barely breached the perimeter line when Savannah pointed to a torpedo-shaped conifer and declared it "the one." Brad and I were very familiar with this maneuver: The Express X-mas Tree Selection strategy. Missile-shaped evergreens were systematically dismissed along with a bunny-shaped one. The perfect Mosiman tree was out there--I just knew it. We scoured the forest, finally reaching the opposite side when we saw it...bathed in a beckoningly ghostly green glow. As if by a tractor beam, we were drawn in, creating a human circle around its pine-y presence. "It's short," sighed Sydney, loving it despite its diminutive size. ""It's prickly," observed Savannah, immediately forgiving her little tree for stabbing an inquisitive finger. "There is something about it," Brad admitted as I pronounced it "Squatty McBush" despite Sydney's insistence that the name sounded slightly pornographic.

Dodging his deadly-sharp needles, we dragged Squatty McBush back to our truck and took him home. Wearing impenetrable gloves, I held Squatty McBush in place while the sound of a socket wrench rose from beneath his branches. "Okay...let it go," Brad said. I followed his instructions implicitly and was surprised when Squatty McBush toppled over onto my husband, impaling him. Despite this minor obstacle, Squatty McBush was soon adorned in blue and white lights, bearing the ornaments accumulated from the past twenty-six years upon his branches...a star, his kingly crown. Every year it's the same, I thought happily as I admired our little tree. I'm so glad that we're not a normal family.

Twas ten school days before Christmas vacation...

I made the critical error of wandering around my elementary school to check out the classrooms of my colleagues and returned to my darkened room with a crushed spirit. It looked like Christmas had thrown up all over the building, spewing holiday cheer and good will EVERYWHERE. My unadorned walls were reminiscent of the scene in "When the Grinch Stole Christmas" after that heartless creature had looted Who-ville...leaving an insignificant amount of ornaments without even a minute piece of mistletoe to be seen. What was I to do? I wondered dismally, "harrumphing" when I should have been "ho-ho-ing."

Suddenly I remembered an idea that I had put on the back-burner last year after I had seen a door decoration of a stable door with reindeer heads peering out. I spoke not a word and went straight to work, digging through ten tons of construction paper, I pulled red out with a jerk. I cut out stables well past my favorite 8 o'clock shows, yelping in pain when I got a paper cut under my nose. Alright, I'm done with my Clement Clarke Moore impression now.

http://www.goodhousekeeping.com/holidays/
christmas-ideas/scandinavian-christmas-decorations#slide-3

I wrestled a 3-D model of a construction paper deer head mount into place and thought to myself, "Yeah...I can teach kids how to do this." and went home to sleep with visions of super-plum fairies dancing in my head, not anticipating the nightmare that was to greet me the next day when I would attempt to instruct sixteen 8- and 9-year-olds on the intricacies of cutting and assembling a construction paper deer mount. It would have been quicker to arm them all, chaperone the group out to the woods, and bag our own real deer to mount than to try and accomplish what I experienced today.

I wish I could say that I was a kind and loving teacher, moving though the room with a quiet grace as I guided attentive pupils in the process of reindeer development. Instead, I was a crazed lunatic screaming, "The nose goes on the FOLD, the nose goes on the FOLD" a zillion times. One of my little honeys skipped the order of events and colored her ornament first. According to my verbal and written (and verbal and verbal and verbal) directions, students must first have completed ALL their morning work for the entire week, then colored in an ornament to then be "rewarded" with the making of a 3-D construction paper reindeer. I had reached my limit well before this little cherub approached me with her ornament, expecting to now be able to make her deer. "Did you complete your morning work," I asked her, over the fifty voices in my classroom asking for help and the fifty voices in my head shrieking words inappropriate for a 4th grade classroom. "We-ll-ll...no-oo-oo," she smiled, twirling an ankle with studied charm, "I thought I'd do that afterwards." "Oh, did you," I snarled, my heart immediately growing two sizes too small. I took her little paper ornament and shredded it, sending shock-waves through the room and my student scrambling back to her desk to complete her morning work. That's what Christmas is all about, Mrs. Mosiman, you heartless...grinch.

And they heard her exclaim as the funny men in the white coats rolled her away, "Merry Christmas to all but make sure your morning work is completed first!"