Let's go. mister...you're moving at "turtle-speed" OR Take-your-favorite-reptile-to-gym-day OR You think I'M slow!

I admit to feeling annoyed when I am confronted by the fact that I don't always have the world's weirdest kids in my classroom. Occasionally, another student will pop up who, for a brief moment, makes my kids appear almost normal.

So, I was chatting in the hallway with my friend, Geri as we watched our students preparing to depart for gym. One of her little cherubs came bustling out, wrestling a large plastic container of turtles out the door. "Wait...where do you think you're going," Geri asked as I settled in to watch the show. He looked at her as though she'd completely lost her mind. "I'm going to gym," he said slowly. The "duh" was implied. "I know that," she responded impatiently, "but where are you taking the turtles?" He sighed. "To gym," he repeated in the same slow manner to allow ample time for his words to sink into his teacher's obviously addled brain. I glanced around quick to see if there was a popcorn machine nearby because it looked as though this program might run over a bit. There was an interlude filled with dramatic gestures, raw emotion, and finally...the introduction of another pivotal character:  The Gym Coach who, upon being appraised of the situation, nodded nonchalantly as though to say The more the merrier and off the turtles went to gym. I snapped a picture afterwards. You'll notice our one little guy was so inspired that he continued running laps even after gym was over. Sometimes all it takes is a  little physical exercise to coax you out of your shell.

Did you say "Garage Band" or "Garbage Band"?

Avid fans of my blog ("Hi Mom!") are already well-versed with my not-so-secret fantasy to be part of a band, but I'm not sure my well-meaning school music director has a full grasp of what I actually mean by "band." Every few years, I am enthusiastically asked to perform in the "Garage Band" ensemble to accompany the 5th and 6th grade orchestra. By the way, I know that the term "orchestra" is inaccurate due to the lack of string instruments but there are a surprising lack of synonyms for the word "band" out there so, if you are one to enjoy word variety in your reading, then deal with it.

So, a group of teachers are handed sheet music and power tools...sounds like the opening line to a naughty joke, doesn't it? Well...let me tell you:  It was no joke. Half of us couldn't read music. Half of that half couldn't keep time. and all of us didn't appreciate being referred to as "tools" by the conductor. Turns out that I fit into each category!

So...what do I bring to the table that I am in such hot demand to be part of the Garage Band? Well, for one thing, I didn't yell at the children during practice like my friend, Geri who honestly wanted to perform professionally on her hand-held cordless drill. Wait, make that MY hand-held cordless drill. Second, I wasn't perpetually late like my friends, Amy, who manned the reciprocating saw, (Hold on...MY reciprocating saw) and Mandy, who played the hammer (Uh-huh, you guessed it). And third, I was instrumental in procuring the necessary equipment for a successful "Garage Band." "Wait," interrupted Brad Mosiman, "who was instrumental? When is the last time you've used ANY of those tools for anything other than props in a band concert?" Sigh.

Other than Amy blowing all of our sheet music from their stands in one powerful burst of the reciprocating saw...which didn't bother me a bit because I play by ear..."No," corrected Mandy, "You play when I nudge you that it's your turn to bang the hammer on the wood five times."...we did okay. The band almost broke up over a heated wardrobe dispute: professional dress versus Village People but we managed to hold it together for the sake of our craft (oh yeah...and for the children.). It was a glorious success. It was said that we were quite inspirational. In fact I heard someone comment how, upon our leaving the stage after our seated ovation, that the children had never sounded better.

Whatever you do...Don't go THAT way

After my niece Morgan spent an hour researching places to eat near us, carefully eliminating them according to star ratings, cost and distance, we settled on a "European-style bistro with Bohemian flair" located a mile's walk from our hotel. It was not lost on me that we had decided to forego several historic destinations during our trip because they had seemed too far away but when it comes to food apparently, we will travel any distance and, as you will see, face any danger.

It soon became evident that we were in a disreputable neighborhood. "How could you tell," Sydney asked later when we were, by the grace of God, reunited. I lowered my voice, "There was a LOT of litter." She nodded sagely, her eyes heavenward as I continued my tale. "Alert and aware, we proceeded cautiously on with a confident air," I shared, "until we met a sight so devastating that it stopped us in our tracks." "What was it," asked Sam as she squirreled through her greasy bag of "Five Guys" french fires. I glanced around surreptitiously before answering, "A playground with  NO grass!" Everyone gasped, horrified. "We would have broken out at a dead run were it not for Morgan's ill-fitting flip-flops but nevertheless, we miraculously arrived, breathless and panting.  "Wait," Brianna asked, "if we're panting, doesn't that indicate that we do, in fact, have breath." "Be quiet, Brianna," I snapped, "You weren't there...you wouldn't know." "But I was there," she said, confused. "Look...there's only room for one narrator in this story...understand?" "Yeah," agreed Sydney. "That's right," confirmed Sam. "Oh," Brianna realized. 

Any hoo...it turns out that, for Brianna, the only thing scarier than our race through Hell's hotel lobby was the restaurant menu. She looked on in horror as I ordered a beet and goat cheese salad while her sister selected a stew that no one could pronounce. Brianna's retaliation for dragging her into this nightmare was to order a $24 steak, make Morgan cut it up for her and then eat a third of it.

As dusk approached, I quietly queried the waitress about alternative routes home. “We were a little nervous on our walk here,” I explained. “Nervous about what,” she asked, confused. Now I was embarrassed and a little ashamed. What was I going to say? That there was a lot of litter and a man threatened me by saying “Hello” as he passed me on the sidewalk? I was frightened that people chain-locked their bikes in front of their houses? I tried to let the matter drop but the waitress, now aware that her clientele was rather high maintenance and ridiculous, planned a route of safe passage for us. “Just don’t go this way,” she warned, pointing out West Capital Road, “and you’ll be okay.”

So it was, beneath a sinister sky shaded in the nightmarish color combination of light blues, pinks and purples, we began our treacherous journey home. We cringed in terror as we passed a poodle. A woman leered at us, her face contorted by upward-turned lips and sparkling eyes. We were told to have “a good evening” just like Dracula would have said before pouncing. “Wait,” Morgan said, “my GPS is re-configuring. We have to go back.” I know enough from the two scary movies I’ve seen in my life to never go back…but, like the idiots who decide it’s a good idea to investigate the flickering light in the attic or the strange noise in the basement, I went back. We turned left. “Morgan,” I whispered, “We just turned on West Capital Road.” As we hurried down the street lined with broken brick, barbed wire and abandoned porta potties, I reflected on my nieces’ father of whom I had threatened to the very inch of his life regarding his care-taking of my beloved dachshund. “Bring her home safe,” I’d growled menacingly, “or don’t come home at all.” But, just as it appeared that all hope was lost…there it was: our beloved hotel…our safe haven…our home. With street-smart skill and savvy, we’d made it.

I think therefore I am...a bunny?

 To address the question, "But what does one actually SEE at the White House," the answer would be..."Morgan!"

After our visit to the White House, our little band of adventurers split up to conquer the Smithsonians. Morgan, Brianna and I headed over to the the National Museum of Art and tried to act really nonchalant about all the naked sculptures. We meandered down the plant-lined path of the butterfly garden and I didn't have the heart to squish Brianna's excitement as she pointed happily at a moth. I was mostly confused in the outdoor sculpture plaza but the girls got me a Pepsi and a Snickers bar before planting me in the shade so it didn't matter. I was initially thrilled by a bunny-themed parody of Rodin's "The Thinker,"  but unfortunately, became completely obsessed with finding the meaning of it for the rest of the day. I am somewhat satisfied with the idea of "splitting hares" but if you can come up with a better one, please enlighten me.

Last time I knew, "The Wheels on the Bus" didn't include curse words

 Memories of yesterday's long drive and agonizing hotel parking process have faded in light of today's long tour and agonizing sunburn. There is nothing like experiencing our nation's capital with teenagers to underscore one's own sense of civic pride and nationalism.

"Where are we going next," mumbled Morgan around her Italian sub sandwich as she sat in the shadow of the iconic Washington Monument. She thoughtfully contemplated my answer before responding, "Oh...but what do you SEE at the White House?" I admit I was a bit befuddled about how to address this. "You would see The White House."

It definitely has been an educational trip. We've learned a lot. Why...just yesterday, Sydney had been busy learning the subtle differences between what constitutes a hill from a mountain as she enjoyed the Pennsylvania landscape. Miss Samantha then astutely observed that the sunset time seemed to differ from her home in Wyoming County. She and Sydney had had what outwardly appeared to be an intelligent conversation about time zones until Savannah couldn't suffer their idiocy any longer and gave them a lesson about the equator. "Are we headed towards the equator," Sam asked while Savannah gripped the van's steering wheel and screamed.

A hard-earned two-hour stop at Perkins (after getting off on several wrong exits to achieve this goal) gave us a rare glimpse into the bizarre eating habits of native Alaskans as Brianna carefully deliberated her menu. She finally confessed, "I want to try the ham and cheese omelette but I've never had one before." We stared at her...horrified and astonished. Surely this was a matter for Social Services. Happily, it turns out that she likes omelettes and all is well with her world. We also learned that she can be an aggressive little thing when it comes to the equal distribution of spreading butter on her pancakes, forcing me away from my own delicious meal of potato pancakes to carefully balance each already-applied layer of buttermilk goodness in the air to reveal the next one for her to address.

As Sydney and Sam got up to leave the table, Sydney blurted out how Sam had her pants on inside out, calling everyone in the restaurant's attention to Sam's tagged "tail." Naturally, Sydney's "thoughtful" behavior is a reflection of years of good parenting dedicated to the sport of humiliating your friends in public whenever possible.

It was smooth sailing from there...well, at least until we actually spotted our hotel and then lost sight of it..."It was by a Wendy's," a helpful navigator pointed out as we careened down one-way streets, through Industrial Park back alleys ("Is that a rave," someone asked as we inched through a crowd of questionable people who looked like they'd rather tip over our little van than perform The Electric Slide) and past the scaffolded Capital building. "There's the Wendy's!" someone shouted. We cheered as we saw our hotel. We groaned as we were swept past it again. One-way street...back alley..."rave"..."There's Wendy's!"...the hotel..."Awwww"...repeat cycle a ka-zillion times. Shouldn't a hidden rear entry with costly valet parking be mentioned SOMEWHERE in the literature? Plus the Mosiman girls don't know what to do with valet parking as our new friend Eric stood by in wonderment as we unloaded all of Morgan's bags, pushed our own cart to our room, delivered it back empty to him and offered to park our own vehicle to save him the trouble before tipping him ten dollars and then worrying that it wasn't enough. Eric is now on our Christmas card list.

As midnight approaches, I sit typing in my darkened 12th floor hotel room, glancing up to see the Washington Monument and the Capital building out my window. The sounds of sleep fill the room. What a day, We shared a bruised banana in the cool shade of trees that stand sentinel at Arlington. "So, ALL these graves are empty," we were asked. "No, the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier for the Vietnam War is empty because DNA testing revealed his identity so he could be returned to his family," we explained, realizing that perhaps the headphones on our double-decker tour bus may have been malfunctioning. I made up a morale-boosting song to help us identify our bus from the slew of competitors:

 Hop on, hop off

Hop on, hop off

We're waiting for (held long for four beats)

(echo) We're waiting for...

(finish with a flourish) The Burgundy Bus!

I added more stanzas as the day progressed (We're riding on... We're getting off...). By the end of the day, some members of our party began to show a marked aversion to our ride. Shocked, I even heard someone say, "Do we have to get on it again?" There was a whispered rumor that another less-than-ladylike adjective had been used to replace the word "burgundy." Despite being slapped in the face by branches several times and a mortifying strike to the forehead by flying debris as we barreled down the highway...I loved our bus to the end. 

Destination travel: Washington DC (or...Why I'll Never Eat at a Wendy's Again)

And thus it was, that this small band of weary travelers made their way into the heart of our nation's capital...irrevocably altered...shaken but not shattered.

I knew that my focus had shifted from professional to personal when, during the school's emergency safety drill, I had...clutched in my hand-not the yellow list of carefully typed procedures--but a list of Washington's top ten restaurants. "I'm not sure how that will help us in time of crisis," a colleague observed wryly, "but you certainly succeeded in making me hungry."

The school day completed, I rushed home to find practically everyone in various stages of readiness. "AIS at 3:30," I bellowed, inappropriately borrowing from Robert De Niro in "Meet the Fockers."  When some eyebrows furrowed in confusion, Sydney clarified, "That's the Mosiman way of saying what time your hind-end should be in the seat." My nieces from Alaska, Morgan and Brianna, began laboriously hauling giant suitcases towards my van. "What are those," I asked incredulously, "We're only going to be gone three days." Pausing, Morgan patiently explained the necessary role of each piece of luggage, breaking them into the three categories of wardrobe, make-up and electronics. Not realizing that I was traveling with the likes of Hannah Montana, Kim Kardashian or a royal dignitary, I sighed and held the door for her while Savannah rushed forward to load her princess's bags.

(Sorry about the abrupt change of narrative--indicated by a different font--, but Savannah just asked me if she should stuff a clean sock into her ibuprofen bottle to reduce the noise. I helpfully suggested a wad of kleenex. She brightened and rushed off before settling on transferring her medicine to a baggie, leaving me to wonder about this unhealthy preoccupation with the rattling of pills.)

 Oops...time for my "free" continental breakfast...still shocked by my $35 a day valet parking. I think the Mosiman's should start offering valet parking on Hobday Road.

At the club on a Monday night!

So, on Monday, I'm rocking it out to "Priory," (No...not the monastery...the alternative rock band) and realizing how their song, Weekend really reflects where I am in my life. Check it out:

"What's a proletariat," I shouted over to Mrs. White, school librarian and all-around cool person. Without missing a beat, she provided the definition:  "Rooted in the Marxist belief system, proletarians comprised the blue collar labor force."

"Tonight I might just lose my way"      

"Stay in this lane," Savannah directed as I clutched the steering wheel of our van in a death grip, hunched over and squinting intently. "Or don't," she sighed as I inched my way over into bumper-to-bumper 7 o'clock-on-a-Monday-night traffic.

"Tell our friends, 'go ahead', 'cause we're hanging back"

Along with Savannah and Mrs. White, my posse also consisted of my two teen-aged nieces from Alaska. Naturally, I was desperate to impress them with my level of coolness. My rating must have sky-rocketed when we entered the club ("Is this a club," I asked doubtfully, looking around. "I don't see a popcorn machine or even a rotisserie hot dog ferris wheel.") when Mrs. White and I were immediately swamped by adoring fans. A group of my former 6th graders, now in high school, were also in attendance. Unlike my group of wall-huggers, they were planted stage-side, doing that nifty over-the-head fist pump. Unfortunately, I was still undergoing physical therapy for my bout of "Monkey Arm" so that really limited my range of motion (see picture).


Overall, I really think I impressed my nieces. I don't think they noticed when the bikini-topped, tattoo-covered bartender mocked me out for ordering water (which I guarded diligently all night so I wouldn't get "roofied") or that, Mrs. White, starving to death, ordered a club soda half-filled with lime and lemon eighths ("No scurvy for me," Mrs. White yelled cheerfully).



A photographing company had sent representatives to take candids of the event. I watched in admiration as my nieces struck a casually cool pose. I waited with impatience for the representative to finally get to me. Mrs. White, a reluctant Savannah and I enthusiastically captured this timeless moment. When I scoured the company's Facebook listings later, I quickly found my nieces but for some reason, the shot of my little entourage hadn't been included. "They probably didn't want everyone else to feel bad because our picture was so incredible," Savannah explained. Fortunately, Mrs. White had taken a picture of me with her Smartphone. Doing the old-school "Raise the Roof" move, I smiled for the shot...not anticipating the dizzying array of delay lights that preceded the actual picture. Blinded, my "Raise the Roof" turned more into "Whack the Wall." But it's still cool...right?

"It's the week-end
It's the week-end"

"But it's NOT the weekend," I'd  pointed out (somewhat necessarily).  Okay...maybe not all that cool.

My heart (and waistline) swell with love

 I was sitting at my desk, after school, mapping out my lesson plans for next week (and catching up with Jimmy Fallon) when I realized that my pants were restricting my lung capacity...in fact, they were slowly but relentlessly sawing me in half. If only I had more comfortable clothes to wear, I thought wistfully when, all of a sudden, my eyes fell upon a discarded pile of "work-out clothes." Excited, I yelled, "Halla-eeka" which I can only presume was a mismatched concoction of Hallelujah and Eureka. I believe both terms more-than-adequately expressed my emotions. I quickly changed and then did an obligatory lap around the building to warn everyone from congratulating me on my renewed effort of becoming physically fit. Comfortably clad in my elastic-waist pants, I resumed work.

And then something else caught my eye. There on my shelf, in a place of honor, was a chocolate plaque, declaring me: "World's Best Teacher." Sure it was broken but that just made it all the more special as it allowed me to sneak in a quick lesson on "irony." Naturally, one of the many clowns who make up my class population couldn't resist insisting that the plaque couldn't be referring to me as there weren't any nuts in it! This little joke was rewarded with a lesson on "puns." My heart filled with warmth as I recalled the excitement of my student when she gave me this sweet gift. Then I decided it was time to fill my stomach with this sweet gift.

But then...something stopped me. First of all, it took a lot of energy to roll my chair over my discarded pants to reach the shelf.  As I kicked them out of the way, my mind suddenly began flashing back to the calorie-laden loads of love poured upon me by my pupils. And it happens so naturally. I was demonstrating how to order decimals when a mini-marshmallow was casually handed to me. "Was this on the floor," I asked before popping it into my mouth. During our read-aloud, a gummy worm dipped in chocolate pudding and then sprinkled with cookie "dirt" slithered over to me. I get to taste-try every new flavor of snack chip out there. This morning was a new one. A home-baked cookie arrived on my desk which was consumed with great gusto and then...to my surprise...another treat was delivered:  A single chicken wing. I fairly cackled with delight. The price of my pants ripping into me turns out to be quite small, I realized, as the currency of love in Room 24 is doled out in sacrificial snack payments. What is a diamond next to a limp bouquet of dandelions? Who needs a gift certificate to a five-star restaurant when you could get an assortment of fruit gummies that are still warm from being grasped in a 9-year-old's earnest fist? Ask my scale at home...these acts of love are worth their weight in gold!

Banged up and emotionally bruised on Mother's Day

http://wlww.cheeseblarg.com/2011/11/by-tuesday-i-will-no-longer-be-liar.htm

Depending on the situation, my expectations can range from non-existent to sky-high. So, with Mother's Day, one must tread lightly as you don't know whether you're about to cross a mine field or a never-mind field. Calling me on the phone the other day, Sydney described her friend's well-intended plan to fill a jar with 365 slips of paper listing her mother's many wonderful qualities. Unfortunately, writer's block set in after wonderful quality Number 30. But still...a list of thirty of my wonderful  qualities would make for some delightful reading. So it was, with bated breath, I awoke this Mother's Sunday, foregoing my annual only-slightly-still-frozen-in-the-middle Pillsbury Toaster Strudel, I eagerly awaited the arrival of thirty hard copy compliments. "There," Sydney croaked at me, pointing a skeletal finger across the dining room table. I scanned the surface eagerly but all I saw were the dogs's Mother's Day flower bouquet with the bent stems when I'd inadvertently jammed them into a too-small vase. "There, she growled and pointed again. I looked a second time. Maybe it was next to that rumpled brown rag on the edge of the table. Oh. It WAS the rumpled brown rag on the edge of the table. I shook out my soft new sweater. I smoothed out the wrinkles and smiled. "Perfect for this beautiful 80 degree day," I said. Graciousness will not be included on next year's list of wonderful qualities.

During my delicious Mother's Day breakfast at Laurie's Restaurant, I was teased mercilessly about my fatigue after an evening of education-based frivolity. "Even your bangs look tired," Savannah observed. Bear in mind that, fifteen seconds prior to this comment, I had mistakenly thought that I was adorable. Verbally slapped back into reality, I blinked back sudden tears, Great, I thought, now I'm going to end up with "emotional basketcase" (with bad bangs) on one of my list of compliments next year.

Having become newly aware of how large my posterior had become after seen it digitally projected on the big screen last night, I made a life-altering decision:  I would go shopping for roomier clothing. As we scoured the racks, Savannah noticed an oddity on the tags. "What does the W after the size mean," she asked before quickly answering her own question, "Wide?" I spun around to confront her. "Savannah!" I exclaimed.  "The W stands for women." "No," said a grumpy salesclerk, emerging from behind a rack of brightly colored circus tents that I had momentarily thought would de-accentuate my own big top, "You're in the plus size section," she pointed out dourly. Obviously, shopping was NOT the answer to my problem (and that saleswoman, obviously, was NOT cut out for a career in retail...maybe she should apply for a position at the DMV). And, as for me and my expectations, Mother's Day could NOT be over soon enough.

If I had a nickel for every chick that hatched...

I have the honor of working with my friend, Kelly Nichol-Dime, so named as, when we asked who had been hired to fill a vacant position someone had replied, "Kelly." Not all of us were able to assign a face to that name. "Kelly Nichol," another person clarified. My friend Becky immediately brightened and exclaimed, "Oh! Like the dime?!?" She was quickly mocked for her mistake while I stood there silently, cheeks red, because I had been thinking the same thing. Anyway...for me, the name stuck.

It's not easy being Kelly's neighbor. She is such a great teacher and I often stew over here in Room 24, plotting diabolical schemes on how to derail her career. Kelly Nichol-Dime is a kind and sweet person. Obviously, I despise her. If Mother Earth had given birth to a human child...that off-spring would be Kelly.

After my mass murder of eggs last year, Kelly stepped up to the plate and offered to foster the chicks in her classroom. The babies couldn't wait to burst out of their shells to meet their new mother. All except one little girl. She managed to make a little peep-hole but was then too exhausted to finish the job. This is a cold, cruel world and one of the first lessons we have to learn is that not everybody makes it. But when it comes to her incubated infants, Kelly is more Navy Seal than Mother Nature. Leave no chick behind, was her rallying cry as she descended on the egg armed with a wet paper towel and a toothpick. I watched, in rapt fascination, as Kelly repeatedly moistened the membrane and used the toothpick to carefully pull it back to allow the chick some much needed air. "It's all up to you now, buddy," she encouraged her little pal. We left for the night, hopefully realistic about what would probably greet us in the morning.

Defying all odds, Wilbur (think of the runt in Charlotte's Web) made it but as all of her brothers and sisters had already been shipped off to loving homes, she was one lonely lady. Walking by her room, I spied Kelly eating her lunch on the floor next to the warming lamp to keep her baby company. Wilbur was NOT the silent type...her indignant peeping echoed through the hallways. Kelly used her i-pad to play her lullabies and, before I knew it, had introduced a comforting friend to soothe Wilbur's separation anxieties. The chick loved her teddy bear, nestling into its soft fur and burying her little head under one of its plush arms. I watched in admiration as Kelly cooed over her contented critter. She definitely achieved all her learning objectives. Her students observed the stages of development, they candled the eggs to detect viability, and they experienced the highs and lows of a successful hatching. But more than that, Kelly's kids learned that their responsibilities don't end the minute the chick emerges. Care-taking isn't just about providing the basic necessities of life. Care-taking is also about providing loving comfort and security even after your chick has left its nest. Just like Wilbur is SOME CHICK, Kelly Nichol-Dime is SOMEBODY SPECIAL.

What's the matter? Ask Bryan!

http://ww2.valdosta.edu/~dnshaner/ebook3.html

I am blessed to work with some extraordinary educators. They put in long hours and over-the-top effort. In everything they do, they give it their all--be it creativity, financial resources and compassion. Why, just yesterday, a member of our 4th grade team came up with a more-than-memorable method of memorizing the states of matter. After listening to the slew of youtube songs on the subject, he snorted and said, "I could do better than that!" And, by George, he did. Still in the beginning stages of production, it's a little rough and it's doubtful that it'll receive our much-sought-after G-rating. Here's a sample:  Liquid is a matter that resides in your bladder, the matter called gas, shoots out your @$$. I believe Bryan is still working on a solid conclusion.

Cinco de My-o-my-o...What have you been teaching those kids?

 I cannot explain my enthusiasm regarding Cinco de Mayo. The woman who waits to the last minute to buy her daughters a Christmas present will stock up on pint-sized plastic sombreros months ahead of time. The teacher who will do ANYTHING to avoid putting up a tree in her classroom will spend hours searching for the most perfect Cinco de Mayo craft for her 4th graders to assemble. And that is where things begin to go horribly awry.

How hard could it be to make a teeny-tiny burro pinata? I wondered, never anticipating that I would be screaming, "Cut the crepe paper vertically...VERTICALLY!" a million times. Apparently 9-year-olds lack the ability to "fringe" so I had to demonstrate that tactic more times than I can count to in Spanish and they only know how to partition off three inches of tape or more from the dispenser each time. I was devastated. These are crucial life skills necessary to their leading meaningful adult lives. I've been wasting valuable time teaching them to order and compare fractions and to be able to determine events leading to the American Revolution when, in fact, I should have been equipping them with basic cut and paste (and fringe) skills.

Meee Meee Meee Me

http://pixshark.com/the-muppets-beaker-wallpaper.htm

I am called upon often in Room 24 to mediate what may be the greatest theological discussions of our time. I have answered questions regarding our existence, the meaning of life, and the complexities of relationships. How it warms my heart and inflates my ego to hear the sudden interruption of a whispered conversation accompanied by the confident assertion, "Let's ask Mrs. Mosiman...she'll know."

So it was on Friday, that a little cluster of scholars approached me with an air of inquiry. I put on my best "Guru on the mountain" expression. "Mrs. Mosiman," one philosophical mind asked, "What's the name of the Muppet that goes Meee Meee Meee Me?"  I pretended to ponder this question before answering. Satisfied, my intellectuals disbanded before they could witness the deflation of my ego. Lesson learned...life isn't just about Meee Meee Meee Me.

Sure, he might drop a few logs now and then...but Paul Bunyan would never do THAT

Naturally, a 4th grader is going to take something as pure and wonderful as Paul Bunyan and turn it into something wildly inappropriate. "One woman's inappropriate is another person's imaginative," my husband commented (without being asked, of course). Using the four characteristics of a tall tale:
T=tricky
A=adventure
L=larger-than-life
E=entertainingly exaggerated,
my reading group was asked to write a story about how Paul and his best pal, Babe the blue ox, might have created Letchworth Park. Most of the stories were sweet and wholesome but...well, there's always at least one in the crowd. Let's just say that the water rushing over the upper, middle and lower falls were the result of Paul's over-active bladder and a keen sense of competition with his cow. Thank goodness I edited the rough drafts before we read them out-loud to the class! "Not to get in a p!$$-ing contest with you," Brad said, "but you can't dispute that the kid really hit the target for read-ability." I will admit that the story had a certain flow but, as the responsible adult in this scenario, it was my job to cut my aspiring author off, mid-stream, so to speak. He was quite indignant when I broke the news that he would have to start over. "Shake it off there, buddy" I warned, "or urine big trouble."