Amy Mosiman: Basketball Star (burning out fast)

Thank you, Stacy Sumeriski, for taking
this o-so attractive picture of me. 

"MOSIMAN! MOSIMAN! MOSIMAN!" My name reverberated off the gymnasium walls as I gingerly made my way down the bleachers to reluctantly join my fellow teachers for the annual end-of-year basketball free throw competition pitting teachers versus students. "When is the annual end-of-year free verse poetry competition," I grumbled as I gripped the basketball and prayed not to make too big a fool of myself this year.

Somehow, I found myself at the front of the line. Mr. King, star athlete and coach, sprinted forward to offer me some encouragement. "Set the table, Mosiman," he said before racing back to take his place in line. I looked after him, confused. "What does that mean?" I shouted. Is that the sports equivalent of "raising the bar"? I practiced dribbled only to be immediately interrupted by another well-meaning coach. "This isn't volleyball," she commented as I used my thumbs and pointer fingers to drum the ball on the floor. I almost told her that I went to States my senior year in volleyball but feel that she would then remind me of my kickball debacle that occurred a few years back.

3....2....1....time to shoot. I hugged the ball and pushed off from my chest. God willed it right through the net. The crowd kind of erupted. Of my four shot opportunities, I miraculously made three. The third occurred just as the clock counted down to its final few seconds. My team would have lifted me up and carried me around for a victory lap but, as I hadn't dropped my winter weight yet, it was postponed.

Now, don't get me wrong. This was very exciting but unfortunately, I may have inadvertently developed an undeserved reputation for being athletic.  Let this serve as my testimony that I AM NOT athletic, I do not understand sports lingo, and am easily injured by even the most simplest of tasks. When Amy Mosiman "sets the table," she actually sets the table. And even that she often gets wrong. Where does that fork go again?

The last day of school: 2015

 June is a metaphorical roller-coaster. The slow clickity-clacking of those small metal wheels signals the start of an agonizing ascent on June 1st. Each day speeds by, faster and faster until, suddenly, we've arrived at that dizzying crest--where our entire year flashes in front of us and we cry out, "No! No! We're not ready!" But the laws of physics and gravity are in play and all we can do now is hold on and enjoy the last bit of this 4th grade ride together.

The last day is always bitter-sweet. Gifts, given from the heart, help soften the blow of separation. I worried that my table might not be able to bear the burden of so much love as flowers and photographs, cups and candy came into Room 24 with smiles and hugs and homemade cards. "I don't want to go," I hear, over and over, and I lie to them, blinking back tears. "Well, I can't wait for you to go!" I herd them out to waiting parents and buses, waving good-bye to my sweet 4th graders. They can't hear me, thank goodness, as I cry out, one more time, "No! No! I'm not ready!"

Did the groundhog see his shadow this Father's Day?

As classroom celebrations go, Father's Day is the Groundhog's Day of holidays. It tends to pop up at us out of nowhere, leaving one to wonder if we should have at least baked cupcakes to commemorate the event. Okay...you caught me. I actually DO have a Groundhog's Day cupcake recipe that I whip out every year. So, Father's Day ranks right BEHIND Groundhog's Day? This will not do AT ALL.

This year, I resolved to not hide behind the "June is a busy month" excuse and scoured all my available resources (Pinterest) to find the perfect Father's Day gift to take the place of last year's remote control candy container. FLASHBACK:  "Why are we buying 20 boxes of off-brand raspberry Jell-o," my husband had asked wearily as I'd loaded up our grocery cart the Thursday before Father's Day to harvest the perfect remote control-sized containers. I think maybe he was hoping that my plan was to load up a kiddie pool for some wrestling but, alas, that was not to be.

As you can see from the picture, Groundhog's Day turned out to be my inspiration. I have to admit though, after our lengthy photo session, that I have a good deal more respect for the furry little guy as using a shadow as the means to an end isn't as easy as it looks. We waited DAYS for the sun to emerge, sweating it out as we neared Father's Day week-end. I was contemplating bringing in Brad's deer-spotting light at one point. Getting fifteen 4th graders to wait patiently as I took pictures was also challenging. "Stop running...stop somersaulting...stop building a human-pyramid," I shouted after my You Can statement failed to work. "You can sit quietly on the sidewalk or lay back in the grass and enjoy the sun," I'd initially directed, even tossing in a patented choice option so they would feel as though they had some sense of control over their 9-year-old lives. Yeah...whatever. I had problems of my own so I chose to ignore when they began digging a hole to China behind me. "Flip the sign," I said patiently as I noticed the "Dad" shadow was reversed. "No, the long side," I said, trying again. "The OTHER long side," I muttered through gritted teeth, using Lamaze breathing before snapping the shot. I would repeat this conversation sixteen times, only it increased in decibels for each shot so that I was at full-shriek at the end. What a wonderful little memory the children will have regarding this year's quest to honor their fathers. Maybe the sign should have read "Help Me."

Hey...is it Haley...Hailey...or Hayley?

"Isn't...that...Grandma's...house...there..." asked Sydney, pointing as I, lost in thought and conversation, flew past my intended destination. "Bad word," I muttered, jerking the steering wheel and slamming our van into a stranger's drive-way. We waved at him cheerfully as I considered my options of re-entering the busy highway in reverse. My chief concern was letting my Dad know about this little snafu. "He'll never let me take Grandma out again," I worried. Foregoing four lanes of traffic, I instead decided to just hightail it 50 feet in the wrong direction to get to my parents's driveway. They were, of course, waiting for me. We wrestled my Mom away from Dad and headed on our way. "I hope you don't mind," my Mom said, "but I told Haley we'd give her a ride too." WHAT? I glanced at the clock. "You mean we're taking the bride to her own shower and we're late," I asked for clarification (plus we hadn't bought Haley a card yet...yikes). "No worries," I assured her, jerking the steering wheel again and slamming our van into the CVS parking lot. Poignant card in hand, we were soon on our way with Sydney arguing with Grandma and me about the correct spelling of "congratulations" and forgetting to write our names in the card after licking (and complaining about the taste) the envelope shut. "I'll just write it on the envelope," she said cheerfully while I glared at her in the rearview mirror and my Mom clung for dear life to the van's overhead handle as I jerked the steering wheel and slammed into Haley's driveway. This was AFTER we all disagreed on the correct spelling of my niece's name to also write on the envelope INSTEAD of the card.

We made it to the shower (late) where I miserably spent the next several hours surrounded by my brother's ridiculously beautiful family. A ridiculously beautiful family who LOVES to take pictures. "Here, Mom," I called, gesturing, "Come stand here, in front of my hips." After the painful photographing session was over, I planted Sydney and my Mom on a bench overlooking a small pond to take some "artistic" shots but they were so busy gesturing wildly like Ancient Aztec explorers that I gave up. "Behold," shouted Sydney, "a dragonfly."

Not only is my brother's family ridiculously beautiful, they are also ridiculously talented. After admiring their personalized catering, I single-handedly ruined what I'm sure was hours and hours and hours of preparation when my enthusiasm about the yogurt bar spilled over. No...literally spilled over. Onto EVERYTHING. The only thing that saved me was my Aunt Sally bobbling the bagels next to me but at least she stuck the landing.

Worst mother-of-the-year award came out again as conversation turned to technology and Aunt Sally proudly retrieved her antiquated cell phone. Not to be out-done, Sydney dug hers out for a side-by-side comparison.

Oh...and then the pre-requisite bridal shower games. I tapped out on the very first one:  a purse inventory (I don't carry a purse), opting to eat fifty fruit ka-bobs instead. Sydney happily checked off her inventory list, inexplicably pulling out not one, but two, deodorants. "Darn it," she muttered, "I had underwear in my purse just yesterday." We all paused to look at her.

Sydney and I are either a delight or a rude distraction during the gift-opening portion of the event, cheering for garbage cans, gift certificates and glasses with equal fervor. There was one particularly awkward moment when Haley, a shy, modest girl, opened up a package of rather steamy lingerie. From across the room, I helpfully explained that, if she layered her peek-a-boo camisole with an assortment of tastefully colored tank tops, she would be sure to be irresistible on her honeymoon. My last helpful act of the afternoon was to complete an advice worksheet for the once-happy-but-soon-to-be-married couple. As I filled it out, I realized that all my advice originated from television shows and movies. "Appreciate the little things" (Zombieland) "Pause option on marital disputes" (How I Met Your Mother). Even my suggested names for their future children were influenced by media:  Ron and Hermione. Of course, Hermione is kind of challenging to spell but as the Mosimans don't tend to even bother signing their own greeting cards anymore, I guess spelling shouldn't play a factor in the decision.
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The very definition of t-shirt art

 It's hard to admit but, it turns out, I'm a little bit of a control freak. I know...shocking, right? Case in point, this year's Field Day t-shirt. There are some that might scoff that 4th graders would readily accept, or even want a dachshund as their team symbol but my friend and colleague, Kelly was quick to defend me. "If Amy loves it...the kids all love it too." So...that aside, I really wanted a shirt design that reflected student ownership of the project. Well, obviously that was an idiotic idea.

Inspired by a splatter-design that revealed a reverse silhouette, I sent the family on a fabric paint spray bottle hunt that landed them in Michael's. "Mom, one package is fifteen bucks," one of my daughters whispered into the phone. "Is Daddy nearby," I asked. "No," she answered. "Then buy two."

The kids had a ball spray painting their shirts. That took all of five minutes. Then it was time to address the text features of our project. "You're going to bubble-letter every shirt for them to color in," asked my team in horrified amazement. "Don't you think it makes more of an artistic statement the way it is," Kelly suggested gently. Maybe they were right. I left the school...only to return three hours later to hand-letter sixteen shirts. That took all of an hour and a half and a permanently cramped hand.

My original vision was just for my 4th graders to fill in the bubble letters. As you can see...my vision went a bit askew. Dotted eyes, dachshund smiles and button noses were applied to my reverse silhouettes. Children...gasp...colored OUTSIDE of my pre-designed lines. The kids were graffiti-ing my splatter-painted shirts. "What are those," Geri asked, observing the final projects. "I think they're socks," I sighed. "Well," she said, turning to exit my room in order to continue printing out iron-on transfers for her classroom's t-shirts, "you definitely reached your goal. Those shirts certainly reflect student ownership." I didn't hear her final statement, though, as I was too busy flipping every shirt over to bubble letter their last names on the backs.

Sure...it LOOKS like fun

If one more person tries to console me by telling me that I'm going to get wet anyway, they're going to wind up with a scissors-kick to the neck, I thought to myself dismally as I watched the windshield wiper blades of our school bus gallantly battle the torrential rain-pour as we chugged our way up to Niagara Falls for the famed "Maid of the Mist" ride. "Can you get out of my seat, please," I asked a 4th grader who was determined to bond with me on the bus. "Why," he asked. "You're sitting on my sandwich," I pointed out.

Our drenched group of adventurers waded across flooded sidewalks and down stairs upon stairs to line up for that most-sought-after of fashion accessories:  The translucent blue poncho. And while this skin-sucking piece of useless plastic might reduce unplanned procreation, it does absolutely NOTHING to protect you from the harsh elements. "I'll take a petite, please," I asked the man handing out these ridiculous raincoats. Apparently, my jokes aren't as original as I would like to believe. I dutifully wrestled my way into it, tied the hood in a beguiling manner beneath my chin and readied myself for the waterfall. The power of the Horseshoe Falls channeled itself into a blast of wind that swept beneath my "raincoat" and became trapped by my beguiling tied-off hood, blowing me up like a big, blue balloon. I held onto the rail and tried to think of something that I had to look forward to...oh yeah. My squished sandwich.

What a sweet sticker!

Interpretation is a key component of effective communicating. For example, recently, a 4th grade student was accused, by his peers, of ripping his friend's t-shirt because he deliberately wanted to get detention. "That can't be right," my friend, Geri thought, and investigated the matter. Taking the perpetrator into the hallway, she said, "Student X, did you rip Victim #1's shirt because you deliberately wanted detention?" Student X looked baffled. "No," he protested. "Well then...why did you rip Victim #1's shirt," Geri inquired. "I wanted to get his attention," the wardrobe mangler finally admitted.

And if verbal exchanges can be confusing enough, written messages can sometimes be even worse! My mother is renowned for decorating her specially-selected greeting cards with just-right-for-the-occasion stickers. Nine or ninety...if you're celebrating something...there exists the perfect sticker. Except this time, I don't think my mom realized just how perfect her sticker was.

Savannah just graduated, with honors (and the ego that accompanies that title), from RIT. To commemorate this auspicious event, Grandma and Grandpa, of course, gave her a card. Savannah was touched. I glanced in it and about split my pants laughing. "What," Savannah snapped, snatching back her beloved card. "The sticker..." I gasped, tears streaming down my cheeks. "Savannah scanned her card, searching for the source of my amusement. "It says Way to Go...what's so funny about that?" I could barely talk at this point..."Say the character...say the character!" Reading slowly, Savannah recited the message of the sticker, "Way to go, Dumbo."

Classroom prizes are not all the same

A vat of canned ravioli roughly the size of my head

It's really all a matter of perspective. While listening to the morning announcements, I perked up when I heard mention of a contest. I love contests! Apparently the prize could be obtained by the diligent and earnest writing of an essay outlining the importance of water.  I nodded sagely...Yes, water is very important. But more importantly, what was the prize? A book?!?! I love books!!! A book about...water??? I could feel my nose doing that involuntary scrunch-y-up thing so I turned away from my impressionable 4th graders who might not want anything more in this world than a book about...water. I penned a quick postie note to a fellow teacher threatening imminent death should she ever decide that I needed such a book. Apparently some students in the school (okay...let's be honest here...MOST of the students in the school) operate on a much higher plane of graciousness than I do and decided to enter the contest in hopes of adding this volume of water (math-related joke...insert scholarly snicker here) to their much-beloved (or much-despised...See! It's all a matter of perspective) teacher's classroom library.

Now...all of this comes in right after MY introduction of our monthly 4th grade classroom prize. Uncle Virgil from Alaska had just departed, leaving in his wake, a grocery-store supply of food. One or two of these items caused great consternation among members of my family. "What on earth are we going to do with a vat of ravioli," my husband of the sensitive palette complained. For once, I had to agree. Like Pandora's box, once you've opened a giant can of ravioli...you're committed. An impromptu council meeting was called and ideas were entertained. We decided that, while plausible, a 108 ounce can of ravioli shouldn't be used as a murder weapon. First of all...we couldn't settle on who we would murder. Or is it whom we should murder (grammar is SO important when planning a felony)? "This isn't Clue," Brad informed us, "a can of ravioli doesn't quite rank with a candelabra, a wrench or a rope." True. We also ruled out using it for shotgun practice because we were growing concerned with how violent our family's brainstorming sessions had become. "How about using it as a classroom prize," Sydney asked. I laughed as Savannah added, "You've used stranger." True. Before I could protest, the gavel dropped and the meeting happily dispersed.

So I dragged in the vat of ravioli and presented it to my class of 9-year-olds. I was not prepared for

the reaction. Cheers erupted. Dancing commenced. There were giddy giggles, hugging and strategy sessions where teams of students plotted to share reward tickets in the hopes of hitting the "lottery." Our moment of silence following the Pledge had never been so sincere. I was stunned. Again...perspective. The reaction to the book of water was slightly less enthusiastic. Does this mean that I am a better teacher than that of Mr. King of the third grade? Of course not (hee hee). In fact, if we look at these two prizes side-by-side, one would note that the book on water has the potential to better the life of the winner for years to come, creating a positive ripple effect, if you will. My prize, on the other hand, will just make the winner gassy. See? I told you! It's all a (states of) matter of perspective. And with this new perspective, I can't help but wonder now, as a result of this little experience, how my students would like a giant bottle of V-8?