Mosiman Merlot (Courtesy of Sydney's Big Toe)

 I wait MONTHS for the premiere of the latest season of Survivor. I awoke on Wednesday filled with enthusiasm and excitement as I looked forward to my favorite 8 o'clock show. So WHY, at 7:45 pm, would my family decide to dip their feet into the latest-greatest craze to sweep the nation: Kitchen grape-stomping? Aaarrggghhhh!

First of all...I'm a princess. These lips DO NOT even touch grapes that contain seeds. So WHY do we even grow them? Brad has been doggedly trying to establish a group of grapes for the last five years and had, up until this point, been unsuccessful. Until this year. 

"What are we going to do with all these grapes," I wondered, not really caring, as we (Brad) admired his over-flowing bucket. He turned to Sydney. "You could take some to work," he offered. "Can I try stomping some," she asked. Like my husband was going to let someone trample his precious grapes. I glanced at the clock. 7:45 pm.

Before I knew it, Brad was listing the number of necessary items for a successful grape stomping. "You'll want a pan with a flat bottom," he told Sydney. So enraptured was he with this activity that he didn't roll his eyes, sigh, or even mutter "What a doofus," when she returned with a frying pan. I knew then that I was in big trouble. Sydney scampered off to super-scrub her tootsies.

By 7:50, she was ankle-deep in squishy pulp. "We'll need a pitcher," Brad said. To me. What?!? Do they actually believe that we're going to drink...that? 

The Hulk-colored liquid was carefully poured into the pitcher as Sydney diligently kept stomping away, squeezing every precious drop from the disgusting pulpy mass beneath her feet. 8 o'clock. I could hear the Pavlovian sound of the theme music wafting in from the living room. Unfortunately, I was too involved in my own sick little social experiment to watch the opening. I watched in horror as Brad and Sydney experimentally tasted their toe juice. "It's not bad," they reported, holding out the pitcher. Apparently we're moonshiners now, drinking directly from the jar. If this was what it was going to take to get me in front of my television, then this was what I was going to do. Survivor contestants have eaten grubs and one-hundred-year-old pickled duck eggs. I could drink a beverage siphoned from between my daughter's toes. My mouth flooded with...flavor. "It's good," I gasped, trying not to retch. This was purely a mental game now.

After encouraging me to go in and watch my show, Brad and Sydney began cleaning up, carefully placing the pitcher in the refrigerator.  Yes. We wouldn't want it to go bad, would we? I could hear excited talk of expanding our "arbors." I stared, defeated, at the screen. But then suddenly, I remembered that, in season one of Survivor, the only access contestants had to water was a dirty elephant puddle. Shame on me. There are always others who have it much worse than me. Okay...maybe not MUCH worse but still...worse. I really need to work on being more grateful. "Bring me a glass of toe juice," I yelled, "I want to make a toast!" "Jelly!" Sydney exclaimed, "We can make grape jelly!" Oh no.

There's no crying during Spirit Week

"Luke...it's a trap!"

"Mrs. Mosiman," my sweet cherub, Claude said carefully after I called on his respectfully raised hand, "You still look good," he reassured me, "but could you please fix your hair? It's distracting me." I glanced in the mirror. A long strand had whipped over to the other side of my head during recess. Not wanting to be an impediment to learning, I quickly restored order to my tangled tresses.

Now...mind you...that was BEFORE Spirit Week.

"What am I going to do for Favorite Movie Character Day," I lamented. Obviously, I couldn't go as Khaleesi from Game of Thrones. Strapping on my prison jumpsuit to represent Orange is the New Black probably wouldn't cut it either. "I'll just wear my r2d2 t-shirt," I grumbled. Sydney perked up. "I could do your hair like Princess Leia," she offered. Which is how I ended up sitting slouched on my ottoman at 6 am the next morning while my daughter rolled old socks into my hair until they were sticking off the sides of my head like giant bagels. I quickly re-enacted my favorite cheesy scene from The Empire Strikes Back for Brad to find in his phone later ("Did you find the picture I put on your phone," I asked him when he called me after school. He about dropped the device in his enthusiasm to see it. "I thought you might have meant something else," he said glumly after perusing my picture.) before heading off to educate the bright minds of tomorrow.

It was surprisingly quiet in my classroom throughout the day...my bagels casting quite the shadow each time they passed in front of the SMARTboard. Sixteen pairs of eyes remained fixed on me as we practiced using variables in math comparative statements, sorted nouns according to common, proper, concrete, abstract, plural, singular, possessive, and collective before beginning an in-depth discussion on using text evidence in a play to determine character traits. We were FOCUSED. Or so I thought. Another bagel eclipse of the SMARTboard prompted a discreetly hushed observation. "Mrs. Mosiman's doughnut hair looks like Shrek's ears." I wonder if my friend, Tyler, down the hall, distracted his own students by slapping the name-tag of "Jimmy Dugan" over his baseball coaching shirt for his contribution to Spirit Week. I'm sure he got up extra early to put THAT little outfit together. Forgive me. I'm just jealous. Next year, I will take a time-saving yet creative cue from Tyler and sport my OWN name-tag. HELLO:  My name is Inigo Montoya.

Lasting impressions: Who needs pictures?

The Mosimans have two speeds:  Sit-on-the-couch speed or Give-up-all-thoughts-of-sleeping-for-three-days speed. On Speed Two, driving three hours to a ball game, spending three hours watching a ball game, and driving three hours BACK from a ball game ON A SCHOOL NIGHT doesn't seem unreasonable at all.

C-R-A-C-K! The foul ball arched my way and I flung my arms skyward to receive this celestial sphere from the heavens until I lost it in the lights whereupon I took immediate cover. My friend Joan never even flinched in the seat next to me, wordlessly watching it sail safely past us. To help me get over the trauma, she took me to get a hot dog. "They could use these to pole vault with," I remarked, impressed, as we mistakenly slathered the foot-long dogs with barbecue sauce instead of ketchup.

Joan was surprised with my vast baseball knowledge. "Our first baseman is super-stretchy," I told her, "and he wiggles his hips slightly when he's up to bat. And our catcher is really tall but can make himself really small. Plus he has the best smile" "You should be a sports commentator," Joan said. I smiled modestly.

I glanced back sporadically at the rest of my family, located four rows behind us. "What are you doing," Joan asked. "I know that they're going to want to take a picture of us," I informed her, "so we'll want to be ready." On the way home, I asked to see Savannah's phone. "What for," she asked. "To see the picture you took of Joan and me," I answered, realizing by the veil of silence that covered the car that I was soon in for a BIG disappointment. "That's a nice picture of you and your sister," I told her coldly. "It wasn't enough that you and Sydney were on the High-Five Cam at the ballpark...I'm glad you also have this nice photograph to commemorate our memorable evening together." Brad pointed at my Kansas City shirt. "What is that?" he asked, "Barbecue sauce? See? You have a lasting memory of tonight's game too!"

JOKE: Who stole the soap to clean Brad's decoys?

The ROBBER ducky!!!

Believe me, I have experienced more than my share of ridiculous arguments in my lifetime. It shouldn't surprise me at this point. But, my goodness...when will I learn?

I should really get some serious credit for maintaining a mature demeanor when Brad enlisted my help in drilling holes in the bottoms of his decoy ducks to empty them of water. And it was actually pretty fun squeezing their sides to expel the liquid although poor Sydney almost ran the push mower into a tree from laughing so hard. But when Brad handed me a hard-bristled brush and asked me to clean any residual debris from his ducks, I was done.

"Now...I don't know all that much about duck hunting," I admitted to my husband, "but will a flock of water fowl conscientiously avoid a water landing area if it is besmirched with a dirty duck? Are they THAT judgmental?"  And here I was feeling sorry for my little feathered friends. Forget that! Blast 'em out of the skies, those duck-billed bullies!

Brad frowned thoughtfully before nodding. Taking the brush back, he said, "You're right. It's probably not necessary to clean off the decoys." I smiled, victorious. "Well...c'mon then," Brad said, walking back into the garage. "What are you doing," I asked. "Now that we're done with the ducks, we can start installing the steel guards on the roof," he answered. I raced after him, grabbing the brush from his hand. "There's actually nothing wrong with taking a bit of pride in one's personal appearance," I told him, vigorously dislodging pond muck from a decoy, "No one respects a dirty duck."

Why was the teacher annoyed with the duck?

He wouldn't stop quacking jokes!

The first week back to school. Exhausting? Yes. Chaotic? Occasionally. Boring? NEVER!

It's not like I'm not actively TRYING. But when you have sixteen 9-year-olds collectively labeling and creating 3D models of the globe while simultaneously taping together paper longhouse replicas (Channel your inner longhouse feelings, I encouraged them, taking pictures, What emotion are you experiencing having just put together a Native American dwelling? Tired? Understandable. Project it. Proud? Justifiably so...show it to the camera. Snap, snap) while memorizing the names of the Great Lakes as well as learning and applying new figurative language terms (Onomatopoeia, I shouted. Wouldn't wanna be ya! they chanted back dutifully.).

Intelligent questions were bandied about:

• "Is this math skills inventory really necessary?"

ANSWER:  Yes. Where else in the day would I fit in my nap?

• "What's a Twinkie?" (In response to my astute observation of what their paper longhouse replicas resembled. Usage: "Staple your brown Twinkie to the bulletin board.")

ANSWER: Gasp. Clutch heart dramatically. Scream out to the heavens, "I'm coming, Elizabeth!"

• "Can you describe the different applications for the terms persons and people?"

ANSWER: Persons for when you can count the plural number. People for when it is an indefinite amount as in We the people... (Stand back and bask in the glow of admiration radiating from sixteen 4th graders who are now convinced that you know EVERYTHING...not realizing the you just recently learned that more than one potato grows from a planted potato.)

• "Mrs. Mosiman, I checked with the principal and he approved the visit of my duck to your classroom."

ANSWER:  Wait? What? Was that even a question?

So this Friday, after looking up and writing the definition of twelve math vocabulary terms and having been engaged in a riveting lesson re-introducing subjects and predicates, we greeted Fred. "How old is Fred," I asked, wincing as the room squealed as Fred let one loose on the floor. "I'm not sure how old she is," my Duck Whisperer admitted. "She?" I clarified, suddenly realizing that my inference in the year 2017 could be political divisive. "Fredrica." Oh. "Except now she'd nicknamed "Nip" for obvious reasons." I kept my mouth shut this time, for obvious reasons. 

Despite our filth-ridden floor, we were delighted with our visitor, except Herb who didn't realize that he had an irrational fear of pooping poultry until it almost crawled in his lap. We all learned a LOT about ourselves this week.

Sure...one of us got a black eye. And one of us ALMOST sliced off his finger. One pair of pants was flecked with feces (but at least it wasn't human!). Mrs. Mosiman turned beet red and almost asphyxiated trying to contain her cough during a drill. But we're survivors. That which does not kill us, only makes us stronger. We roll with it. Well, some of us waddle with it. I just quacked myself up!

Signed...SEALED...(Pier 39) delivered!

When my girls were little, we decided to visit the statue of the sled dog, Balto as featured in their favorite cartoon at that time. Easier said than done, my friends. Central Park is HUGE with winding paths and statues everywhere. For some reason though, this little expedition has evolved in our memories from frustrating to magical over the years. So, as I put together our California itinerary, I couldn't resist including the statue of the sea lion in Sausalito. "It disappears at high tide," I warned as Brad fought for a parking space in the busy sea-side town, "It may be difficult to find or we may not find it at all." Victorious, Brad claimed a spot and we climbed out of the car. "Is that it," Brad asked, slamming his door and pointing across the street to the bay. Yup. Sure enough...there it was. Maybe ten years from now, we'll remember the discovery of this statue to be a bit more challenging.

This would not be our only sea lion encounter of the trip. I had also included a visit to the famed Pier 39 which is home to hundreds and sometimes even thousands of California sea lions. Unfortunately, I had scheduled this sea lion stop-over in the middle of what had been an exhaustively busy day and we hadn't yet had lunch. Tour Guide Amy had a rough time managing a group of hangry people willing to sell their souls for a street vendor hot dog. "It was like the Hobbits going across Mordor," Sydney recalled with dramatic exaggeration. Where does she get that from?

As our grueling trek wore on, I began to lose confidence. Maybe I'd missed it somehow. Maybe the sea lions weren't out today. Maybe we should just buy a hot dog and call it quits for the day. But then...

You can hear them long before you ever catch sight of them. "You can smell them before you see them, too," Brad observed as the pungent smell effected all but those with the heartiest of appetites (The Mosimans). "Love has no aroma," I replied, completely enraptured. It was like Game of Thrones out there complete with the fight for territory and sibling incest. They were ruthless and playful, sly and seductive. One minute, your companion is a warm cuddle-buddy. The next minute, you are being flung heartlessly back into the Pacific. If one sea lion isn't looking for love, then the gal on the right might be more than accommodating. Or even the guy...oh my!

A big fan of the panoramic feature on Savannah's phone, I asked why she hadn't taken a picture yet.

"I'll do it now," she agreed, stifling a yawn. Dismayed that she hadn't anticipated that I would want to be IN the shot ("I was tired AND hungry," she explained later), I lunged forward, managing to make it into the same photograph, three different times. Such was my love for the California sea lion. "Can we go eat now," my family begged. Such was their love for their own stomachs. "Ten years from now," I scolded, "what do you think you'll remember more? The sea lions or your lunch?" "Lunch," they answered, dragging me away from my magical sea lions. I do have to admit, though, lunch was pretty magical too.