Easter: It's so much more than a bunny

"Are you suppose to look like a chick," asked one helpful
4th grader, "because you actually look  more like a squirrel."

"Mrs. Mosiman..." a small, slightly-sulking voice asked softly, "don't you like Easter?" I admit I was taken aback (rather than affronted...hashbrown...oops...I mean hash tag #Having fun with language). I LOVE Easter! Where on earth would my little honey have even gotten that idea? "We'll talk about this as soon as you finish your ten reading comprehension questions covering main idea, theme and perspective," I whispered encouragingly. As I began my math lesson on how to recognize improper behavior in fractions, I reassured my little dumplings that I was all about the bunny. I almost dropped my class set of fraction strips at their confused reactions. "Why the frowns, clowns?" I said, pausing to take a seat. "Well, we made those neat Groundhog's day cupcakes and Groundhog's Day isn't even a real holiday," one student observed. "And we made jointed leprechaun puppets even though most of us aren't even Irish," another one pointed out. "And remember how most of us were irrevocably disfigured hot-gluing magnetic tea-lite snowmen for Christmas?" paraphrased my word-smith.

They were right. I had short-changed Easter. I wonder why? It might be the looming state tests lumbering towards us like lines of elephants, ready to squash us flat if I failed to teach my darlings the symmetrical points of a rhombus. A more probable cause might be that Easter in public school depresses me a bit. I don't mind the side-trappings of Santa and flying reindeer and gifts galore at Christmas because most kids have at least a rudimentary idea of what Christmas is really about. Easter is trickier. As a Sunday School teacher, I'd taught about the empty tomb using an Easter egg. I've explained the Easter story with jelly beans. In public school, it really IS all about the bunny and the basket. But my overlooking it altogether wasn't the answer either. The rhombus was going to have to wait.

I cracked out the paints and paper. As we sat, side-by-side, discussions began about the up-coming

school break. Some kids were as excited about visiting Grandmas as others were about visiting Mickey Mouse. One by one, they showed me their careful drawings of a bunny and, like Adam, I christened each creature. "He shall be named Barney," I declared, "This one is Archibald. And this is Poppy." As the child headed back to his seat, I thought to accentuate the correct spelling of that particular name, pleased that so many kids quickly caught my implied joke. "That's okay, Mrs. Mosiman," my artist said back snappily, "I was going to color him brown anyway." We howled. 

"What's your favorite part about Easter, Mrs. Mosiman," asked one of my cherubs, digging through my feather container. I bit my tongue as an ode to Russell Stover Marshmallow bunnies immediately came to mind. It's a white lie for Jesus, I thought quickly, ignoring the heavenly frown that tickled my brow. Wait...that was only one of the thousands of flying feathers that were filling the room. (I also ignored any possible symbolic references to the Holy Spirit.) "I love going to church on Easter Sunday," I said, bracing myself for the inevitable lightning strike as a) I hate getting up early and b) I hate getting dressed up. "Ooooo...me too," squealed my 4th grader, "My mom and I are going to go shopping for my Easter dress this week!" And suddenly, there was at my paint-splattered table, a host of students enthusiastically talking about Easter (the REAL Easter), debating if Christmas was when Jesus was born or if Easter was when Jesus was born and hearing the child who may one day be an evangelizer or a WWE ring announcer straighten everyone out by insisting that both views were right but technically Jesus was RE-BORN on Easter. And just like that, Easter was re-born in Mrs. Mosiman's classroom. As for the rhombus...so far, it's only reference point is the punchline of a joke. Why did the mathematician get lost, I asked. Because he got on the ____________.

Blindsided by basketball biscuits

I sighed as I held the faculty room door open for two crock pots (note to self:  careful, close reading is imperative here as one might initially think that I wrote two crack pots which obviously changes the meaning of my story...). It was going to be one of those days. I watched as my uber-athletic, manly-man friend Tyler placed his March Madness-themed bread rolls carefully on the table. "What the heck," I stormed, "What is going on?" You guessed it. Like the bad fairy in Sleeping Beauty, I was left off the Google-Drive-to-the-Cloud invitation list to the faculty luncheon. "You can still enjoy the food," Tyler reassured me as I yearned to pummel him with his snowball-sized spheres of Spring spirit. "No, I can't," I shouted attractively, stomping around the room, "not if I didn't contribute." Tyler glanced around the room, spotting the vending machine. "I bet you could do something with those," he suggested, pointing to a Snicker-sized solution.

A paper plate became my platter (with a hastily-drawn cartoon bunny making a somewhat inappropriate observation about faculty luncheons). I broke two plastic forks as I sawed my way through thick layers of caramel, nougat, peanuts and chocolate appetizers. Having carefully counted out EXACTLY 16 giant jelly beans for my students as a surprise for tomorrow ("Sixteen?" Sydney had asked incredulously, "The surprise will be for you, Mom, when they ask where the rest of their Easter treats are!"), I made a conscious sacrifice, adding a burst of color to my culinary creation.

Done and done. I could now freely load up multiple plates with homemade macaroni and cheese, meatballs, pasta salads, desserts, dessert and more desserts without another thought. I, of course, forgave friend and event coordinator, Kathy for her more-than-understandable mistake of overlooking me on the cloudy Google thing. I also made sure to act as a role model for my students when she stopped in the class to apologize. "Cherubs," I announced, "When someone causes you untold emotional damage, down to your very soul, it behooves you to respond graciously." We all then extended one long arm each, palms in the policeman STOP position toward Kathy and then looked dramatically in the opposite direction with our noses up (just a bit) in the universal gesture of friendship and forgiveness. I also forgave my dear friend MJ who made a point of stopping in to compliment my dish and demand the recipe. Talk about kicking a dog when she's down! My administrator, thinking that my "dish" was a joke, correctly predicted that I was the woman behind the paper plate platter. But as we all now know...that dish was no joke. Instead of being packed with peanuts, it was packed with pain. "What would you have brought if you'd known," a student asked curiously as I stabbed giant jelly beans with toothpicks. "What I always bring," I hissed through gritted teeth, "Salt and vinegar potato chips."

I'm a size 5 from my knees down (not counting the cankles)

I'm forty-five. When am I going to grow into the graceful, gracious woman that I am destined to be? Take Friday, for instance. I apparently turned off my snooze alarm (or maybe there's a fail-safe button after you hit "snooze" over six times) and woke up, in a panic, 20 minutes before my scheduled departure time. Threw myself into my icy van and looked dismally at my frost-encrusted windshield. I can mostly see, I thought to myself optimistically until I was blasted by the rising sun. Blinded, I frantically stabbed the down button and drove the entire way to school with my head out the window. If that wasn't bad enough, a kind bus also pulled over to grant me access. I just hoped that all that hair whipping around my blue-with-cold face disguised my identity.

Upon my return home, I ventured out onto some snow-pack to retrieve my frozen dachshund. She bolted away the moment I sank, thigh-deep, into the snow. My daughter, Savannah, couldn't catch her breath between bouts of laughter as I flailed about helplessly until I was forced to crawl and then roll to safety.

The next day was "Fresh-Start Saturday." I almost called it a day right at the beginning when I mistakenly pulled misplaced delicates from my dresser drawer and stood, in baffled confusion, when I couldn't even succeed in pulling them up past my kneecaps. "You can't expect to fit in size 5s," my husband said consolingly, "and your knees certainly aren't fat. They're angular." My angular knees came into play again much sooner than I would have liked as, to avoid the mud that carpeted most of my lawn, I went to carry the dachshund out to the van, stepped onto some ice and, as my husband would describe it, performed a slow-motion pole dance of epic proportions around the snow fence, landing heavily on my "angular" knees while daintily setting the dachshund down to dash off into the mud. Is it time to face facts? To embrace the notion that I'm not graceful...I'm gawky? I'm not elegant. I'm embarrassing. AND I have angular knees! Well, at least they're acute ;)

How our plan almost went ker-plunk!

It was time for our school's annual "Family Fun Night" and our administrator, who has been tirelessly working from dawn to dusk + five hours, put out the request for each grade level to create a game to contribute to the event. When met with mild grumbling, he pointed up to his face. "See these eyes," he exclaimed, "these eyes haven't closed in days!" Thus-ly inspired, the 4th grade team set to work.

Spear-heading the movement, I found the directions for a to-life-scale version of Kerplunk and brought the idea before committee.  Not mentioning any names (Geri), one member of the group was less enthusiastic than the rest. "I have tomato cages and a tire in the barn," she mused reluctantly, perusing the materials list doubtfully, "but how do you propose I tunnel through the six foot wall of snow to get there?" The rest of us, however, were optimistically delighted about our plan.

Typical of our usual team meetings, we began the process well over a month ago. As unofficial team secretary, I made note of our progress:

Meeting #1:  Introduction of plan:  squeals of delight, muttering, almost unanimous decision to bring our idea before the administrative committee

Meeting #2: Having reviewed the plan with administration, we went over the necessary supplies (see Geri's contribution: appendix A: paragraph 2)

Meeting #3: Still enthusiastic but as the event was still weeks away, we still just talked about supplies. Half-hour discussion about a) DO clear shower curtains exist? and, upon subsequent research, b) WHY do clear shower curtains exist?

Meeting #4:  Agreed to discuss plan next week

Meeting #5:  Geri brought a cheesecake so progress was temporarily halted

Meeting #6:  "Wait...? Family Fun Night is THIS week?!?!" Clearly we did not have enough time available to plan and construct our project. Will have to table our idea until next year.

Emergency Meeting #7:  Having encountered our administrator the night before in a shopping center buying Visine for his dry eyes, our formidable team leader, Rachel, had hastily bought tomato cages and yes, a clear shower curtain (which we promptly lost). We spent over an hour acquiring our much-discussed supplies..."Hello, bus garage...do you have a tire we can borrow?" " Hello...gym? Do you have colorful balls we can borrow?" (As you can imagine, THAT request was met with some colorful language not
suited for a blog of this quality!).  With assembly-line precision, we wrapped recycled PVC piping from Rachel's daughter's science project in duct tape of assorted colors and patterns..."Are these peacock feathers?" Geri asked, setting a plastic pipe on a strip of tape. We zip-stripped the cages together and hit our first big snag as the cages sank despite our best efforts, leaving gaping holes for our colorful balls. (No giggling...this blog is rated PG). Clear packing tape and fifty thousand zip-strips would have to suffice as we wrestled a tire into a polka-dot kiddie pool and then wrestled the tomato cages into the tire. We all stood back to admire our efforts. Clearly, this was an excellent example of how to successfully set a plan in motion!

Real men paint onsies

Two of my fourth grade fellas recently had new siblings join the family. "If they were girls," I thought to myself, "I'd have them paint onsies as a gift." Oh my goodness! What was I thinking! It shouldn't matter if they're boys or girls! Anyone can paint a onsie! Shame on me for thinking that it was only an activity for girls.

So I carefully broached the subject with my two uber-athletic, manly-men students. "Do you know what a onsie is," I asked, not prepared for the utter looks of disgust and disdain that I would receive. "Of course I know what a onsie is," I was told, "it's like a bathing suit for babies to wear under their clothes." Okay...first hurdle crossed.

"Would you like to stay after school with me to paint a onsie as a gift," I inquired. Once it was firmly established that I would be serving snacks, the response was enthusiastically in the affirmative. "What sort of picture?" I was asked. "Anything you want," I said stupidly. "I want an ax and an anvil," my one guy answered immediately. "No," I stated firmly.

"Why?" asked my 4th grader.

"Why?" asked my husband later as I related the incident to him at home.

"Because it's for a BABY," I insisted, "the picture should absolutely reflect the giver but should still be appropriate to a baby."

"What's not appropriate about an ax and anvil," my 4th grader asked.

 "What's not appropriate about an ax and anvil," my husband asked later as I related the incident to him at home.

 "What's not appropriate about an ax and anvil," one of the fathers asked later when I ran into him at the grocery store.

Sigh. Lesson learned. Real men absolutely DO paint onsies. Just be prepared that, instead of anticipated pictures of pink puppies, butterflies and flowers, you will be painting themes depicting mayhem and destruction.

A sad ending to a mouse tale

"Are you sure they're still in there," my husband asked doubtfully for the millionth time, peering into the plastic container that has worked as a temporary mouse house for just under two weeks. I sighed, sick of his daily interrogation. "Of course they're still in there." I ignored the rest of his rant about how I needed to set them free soon or SURELY they're going to get out. What a worrywart, I thought, When will he realize that I know what I'm doing? 

Brad finally left for work. I lifted the lid of my little mouse motel to toss in some seed. I observed the three toilet tissue rolls where my two guests spent the bulk of their time hiding and sleeping. Hmmmm. Like the magician revealing the ball from beneath the cups, I lifted the first tube to reveal...nothing. The second tube was also empty. Heart pounding, I reached for the third. Suddenly, I was diving head-first into the container, searching frantically for my mice. Where were they?!?  Where were they?!? And then I froze. How was I going to tell Brad?

Naturally, my first instinct was to lie. I occupied the better part of my ride to school by concocting elaborate fabrications. But what if Brad already knew? What if it was a set-up? As you can see, my marriage is a firm foundation of mutual trust and respect. Frantic, I brought the matter before a jury of my peers. "What do I do," I wailed, laying out my moral dilemma to my 4th graders. "Lie," came the general consensus (Which should cause us some concern, by the way) but one lone voice held firm. "You need to tell the truth, Mrs. Mosiman," said Tyler, "It's the right thing to do."

"You should have lied," my husband shouted, as I broke the news to him that evening. I remained silent...a rare occurrence. What could I say? I had no defense. For once in my life...I was wrong. I remained silent. It didn't help me much as my husband raged about the room. "I'm sorry," I inserted softly. "A lot of good that's going to do," he yelled. "In a couple of hours, you will have pretty much forgotten about this. Meanwhile, I will always be aware that you DELIBERATELY brought rodents into my house...in my walls...my cupboards. And the worst part is that you'd probably do it all over again if given the chance!" I sighed. What a worrywart. As he continued yelling at me, I focused my attention on the now empty container. How on earth did they get out of there, I wondered, imagining the most likely scenario:

Mouse 1 (hunkered down like a 1920s hobo, rubbing his little paws together over a hypothetical little fire): This is it, Lefty. You and me's bustin' outta here.

Mouse 2: Ya gotta plan, Stan?

Following an intricate blueprint and using the resources at hand (sorry...paw), the two McGyver mice manipulated the toilet tissue tubes-rolling one, barrel-style, to wedge in a corner and then heroically hefting the other two up, end-on-end, to reach the lid. Lefty, with herculean strength, strained his little mousie arms to lift the barrier for Stan to slip through before diving out himself, Indiana Jones-style.

"Are you listening to me," Brad shouted. I nodded. "You would, wouldn't you," he accused, still incensed. "What," I asked. "You'd do it all over again, wouldn't you?" I thought about Lefty and Stan and their glorious escape to freedom. Taking a breath, I braced myself...closed my eyes and nodded.

Dressed for success

There will be a few (Kelly Harris and Joan) who will immediately leap to the defense of the unsung hero of our household, saying that poor Juno, the down-trodden Rottweiler, doesn't receive enough press-time. But...c'mon! Did you SEE the picture?!? Oh my goodness...forget about the baby panda sneezing! Check out my dachshund wearing a panda hat and booties!

The astute observer might be able to detect just a smidge of disgust on my little dog's face but, as usual, she was an awful good sport. Winter can be cruel to her fuzzy little paws as we dig icicles from the fur between her toes. Booties are a much better alternative even though she walks as though she's wading through peanut butter.

Chlo's favorite winter activity is snow-blowing on the 4-wheeler with her daddy but, pragmatically-speaking, steering is precarious at best and Chlo is shivering within sixty seconds. Enter the handy-dandy, belly-busting, canine-covering (front) backpack! With a long-established reputation for detesting canine clothes of any kind, we nonetheless wrestled Chlo into her puppy pack. Once she was installed on the 4-wheeler, her attitude shifted dramatically into high gear.  Able to steer with both hands, Brad made short work of clearing the snow with his little buddy safely supervising him.

No...I have not gone over totally to the doggie dark side. Chlo will not be sporting designer duds or flaunting the latest fashions. She is a very down-to-earth dog. But where-ever her doggie dreams will take her, Chlo will be sensibly outfitted for the occasion.