Our birthday was "for the birds"~ Syd & Amy's penguin pal

I should have known that I was in trouble when I called the aquarium to book the Penguin Encounter.  "And what are the ages of the participating individuals?" the voice on the other end of the phone inquired. "Well, I'm turning 48 in just a few days," I informed him. It felt suddenly as though I were talking to dead air. "Hello? Are you still there?" I asked. "Yeah," he answered quickly, "We just tend to schedule kids more."

For goodness sake, it's not like Sydney and I wanted to celebrate our birthdays at Chuckie Cheese. Doesn't EVERYONE love penguins? I couldn't imagine a better way to celebrate turning 48 then by snuggling a suited-up seabird. Refusing to be shamed, I completed the booking. "Come early," the voice encouraged, "It's Mermaid Day!"

So for weeks, Sydney and I were a-twitter, anticipating our shared Penguin Encounter. Finally, the Big Day arrived. "Should I wear layers?" Savannah asked, "Will I be outside at all?" I assured her that the entire encounter would take place in the relative warmth of the aquarium. Oh, how wrong I was.

"Look at that line!" Sydney exclaimed as we attempted to find a spot in the crowded aquarium parking lot. "Why are all these people here?" Brad wondered, "Is there a special event?" I gasped. Mermaid Day! We reluctantly joined the line. "Is this for real?" Savannah asked, her frozen heart refusing to melt at the sight of a zillion little girls outfitted in fish tails and parkas. "Who goes to an aquarium to see some girl fitted in a fin wiggling around in the water when you can see a seal or a barracuda or even an over-sized carp?" Shivering, I lamented not wearing my eighty dollar Ursula costume both for its warmth and the theatrical effect.  After fifty minutes, a nervous aquarium staff member ventured into the crowd and clamored up a boulder. "May I have your attention, please," he bellowed, "Due to circumstances beyond our control, the mermaids will NOT be swimming today. The water temperature has reached a level deemed unsafe. Mermaids WILL be available for pictures." The cold crowd quickly evolved into an angry mob. Someone yelled, "Kill the mermaids!" Okay...that might have been me. Fortunately, no pitchforks were available but our guy scrambled down from his boulder when a group of vigilantes began unraveling the rope tied to a decorative anchor.

Spirits soared when we actually crossed the threshold into the aquarium. Turns out hostility is directly proportional to how cold your feet are. "May I have your attention," I should have bellowed in the parking lot, "Due to circumstances beyond my control, the temperature of my toes have reached a level deemed unsafe. I may soon embark on a murderous rage directed at anyone keeping me away from my penguin. Feel free to take pictures."

Like Disney princesses, Sydney and I were immediately whisked away to a small room filled with penguins. Our first impression was that the smell of penguin really packs a punch. But as soon as we spotted Opus, the smell disappeared. Don't believe the bumper stickers, Love DOES NOT stink. You haven't lived until you hold a handful of penguin. Bracing her chest in one hand, I stroked Opus's sleek feathery back, feeling her lean heavily against me until she was laying mobile on my open palm. "I can feel her heartbeat," I whispered to Sydney, enraptured. It was completely magical.

Sydney and I went into this little venture with some preconceived ideas. Actually, we spent hours plotting and planning. "Do you think they'd let us dress our penguin in little outfits and take pictures for a calendar," we wondered. "Or maybe just a white beard and Santa hat for our Christmas card." We considered rubbing sardine oil onto our hands to ensure that our penguin liked us. In retrospect, I'm glad we abandoned that idea after we witnessed the first penguin take a small hunk out of his trainer's hand. "I am NOT a trained seal," he seemed to say as he waddled away. We much preferred gentle, sleepy Opus.

It was an incredible way to celebrate our birthdays. We thanked little Opus for providing us with such a memorable experience and exited the room. "Did you have fun?" Brad asked, having had to witness my encounter through a small rectangular window like I was a member of a penguin police line-up. "It was great," I squealed, framing my face with both hands. "We need to find a bathroom right now," I said. "Are you feeling okay," he asked, concerned. "Yeah," I answered, "but my hands smell like penguin."

Bursting the birthday bubble

She's twenty-two. It's not like I can tuck confetti into her lunch pail or trigger a bubble machine to go off in her locker anymore. As your children get older, the magic of birthdays threatens to fade a bit. Most accept this phenomena as inevitable evidence of adulthood. But not Sydney Lynn. Each year, she prepares to ride her celebratory sled down the snow-hill of dreams and wishes. The past few years though, she's toppled off her toboggan to be dragged painfully through the icy, yellow snow of reality.

Chronic car trouble was the theme of this year's birthday; eating up Sydney's Christmas AND birthday as her father and I gift-wrapped a new transmission. Grateful though she was, Sydney couldn't quite put that sled away. The night before turning twenty-two, as she lay curled up on the couch, she sighed. "My birthday just doesn't feel special anymore," she said wistfully. I nodded in understanding. Our birthdays are a week apart and my biggest fantasy is to have my 4th graders shower me in packages of Expo markers as we are currently experiencing a dry erase marker drought.

Before you get all judgy-judgingstein on me, know that, of course, we got her a couple of small presents. I had also ordered flowers (and a balloon) to be delivered to work. I was excited all day; knowing how much she would love this unexpected surprise. I peered out the window as she pulled up to the house at the end of the day, juggling her flowers and the cupcakes a kind co-worker had brought in. I frowned. Where was the balloon? What kind of birthday is it without a balloon?

"Oh," Sydney said, thrusting a wrinkled, crinkly mass of colorful foil at me, "Here it is." I was astonished. "You popped it?" I gasped, disbelievingly. "Well, it was just going to deflate," she explained as Brad stepped suddenly between us to keep me from tackling her to the ground. "By that thinking, you might as well throw away the flowers because they're just going to wilt," I snarled. If I couldn't wring her neck, maybe I could wrestle the transmission out of her car. What does a transmission look like?

After I'd calmed down a bit, we transitioned to birthday dessert: chocolate pudding. Brad rummaged around in the drawer, looking for a candle. "Why do we have so many baby spoons," he asked, "Our girls are both in their twenties." With nary a birthday candle to be found, I debated a pillar candle but decided that pudding lacked the consistency to hold it heavenward. "No candle?" Sydney asked, her face falling, "What kind of birthday is it without a candle?" The illusion is shattered. The bubble burst. She finally wiped out.

The Pulpit Master

Like so many of my fellow emotionally-vulnerable friends out there, I made a mistake. I thought he’d changed. A man of limitless potential with the ability to positively impact those around him, I foolishly believed that he would stop this hurtful vendetta against me. He is, after all, a Man of the Cloth (Although he confused the entire congregation with his anti-Christmas colors that he flaunted on The Big Day. “Is that tangerine?” Sydney whispered, worried that she’d gone over-the-top in her red and green ensemble. “I think it’s more honey-dew melon,” I answered. Brad hushed us. “It’s cerise,” he snapped, “Eyes off the weird shirt and ears on the sermon.”).

I have to admit to feelings of betrayal. Sure we got off to a rough start. To combat my somewhat sarcastic manner and low-brow sense of humor, he tried to distract me during my directed reading with challenging Bible words made up entirely of consonants. Obviously, he was unprepared for my above-and-beyond dedication to pronunciation. So he upped the ante. Instead of one twelve-syllable word with one vowel, the next time I was scheduled to read, I was assigned seven. But Amy Mosiman is no pulpit-puppet. After my last mic-drop, I thought that Geppetto had learned his lesson: Don’t mess with the guest reader.

I received my latest reading, Mission Impossible-style: Should you choose to accept this public speaking assignment, you will be pleasing the Lord by bringing His Word to His people. If you choose NOT to accept this request, I’m not saying that you’ll suffer the eternal flames of hell but who knows? I’m paraphrasing, of course but you get the gist. I was pleased with the readability of Psalm 32 and looked forward to a new, healthier relationship with my pastor. One of warmth and mutual respect.

As my family settled into our pew, the back row caught our attention. “I forgot your name,” a nice man said, his face wincing apologetically. I smiled. “I’ll give you a hint,” I prompted, “It begins with an A, contains three letters, and ISN’T a naughty word.” There was a stunned silence where I suddenly realized that I was in a church before the back row rocked with hysterical laughter. Whew. That was close. I didn’t want to offend anyone. I glanced up to the front of the church to see my pastor shaking his head. Uh-oh.

“When do you go up?” Brad inquired. I glanced at the email. “It says that instead of being invited up, I’m supposed to just march up there after the first song.” “What’s the song?” he asked.  Reading the email again, I frowned, my eyes snapping to my spiritual leader. “What is it?” Brad asked again, peering over my shoulder before cracking up. The song was Come ye sinners. Duped again.

4th grade "Snow Day" and why I resent Rachel

It is impossible to dislike my friend, Rachel. She is a kind, hard-working, talented person who, despite my best efforts to provoke her, never says a bad word about anyone. Her positivity enrages me. Rachel is diplomatic, compassionate, and thoughtful. It disgusts me.

And while it may SEEM impossible to dislike Rachel, today...I came close (I can just hear her now, gently suggesting that perhaps we shouldn't dislike the person; instead dislike the action...ugh! It is inhumane that I should have to work under these conditions!). A couple of days ago, Rachel thought it would be a good idea to have a "Play Outside Day" for the 4th graders. Knock yourself out, I thought wickedly as I doodled in my team meeting notebook. I suddenly snapped to attention when I was made aware that she also intended for ME to go outside as well. "No where in my contract does it say that I HAVE to go outside," I declared hotly. "But wouldn't it be good for the kids to get some fresh air?" Rachel reasoned, "and the constructive play would be a great remedy for the wiggles that accompany cabin fever." I glanced around for the trio of singing bluebirds that were sure to encircle Rachel's head soon while one landed gently on her outstretched finger so the two of them could whistle a little jaunty tune together. I didn't stand a snowball's chance in Hades (Oooo! Greek Myth reference! Click here for yesterday's scandalous tale!).

So yesterday, I stopped my husband on his way down to the basement. "Could you bring me up my snowpants?" I asked sweetly. He paused on the top step. "Uh...honey? When's the last time that you actually wore your snowpants?" I did not like his tone. At ALL. "Never-mind," I snapped, "I'll get them myself." Brad brought them up and, without a word, handed the snowpants to me. But his face said it all. Naturally...I was righteously enraged. How DARE he think that I couldn't fit into a GIANT pair of snowpants. "Try them on," he dared. OH NO HE DID'nT!!! I hopped on one foot. Almost lost my balance. Plunged one leg in. Wiggled. Jiggled. Sucked in. Hopped some more. Almost flopped over. Burst into tears. "I hate Rachel!" Pretty sure that, somewhere in the world, three little bluebirds dropped out of the sky, dead.

Several minutes later, as I lay curled, crying, in my chair, Brad returned from the basement again. "Oh! Good idea, Dad," our daughter Sydney applauded, "Uncle Virgil's snowpants should fit her." He glared at her as I wailed. Nothing against Uncle Virgil. He is a tall man. Broad of chest. Robust. A man's man. One with the wilderness...rigorous. A mighty oak. "Oh my gosh," I whispered, horrified, "What if his snowpants don't fit me?" Brad alternated between wanting to kill Sydney and talking me off the edge as he wrestled me into the snowpants that, thankfully, (just) fit me. I was ready to play in the snow.

It was a beautiful day. The children cavorted happily atop the crusted snow like little chipmunks. I was more like Godzilla, each step plunging through knee-deep snow, leaving behind craters for unsuspecting 4th graders to fall into. In between yelling, "No head-shots" fifty ka-zillion times and avoiding the stray snowball that careened our way, the teachers commented about the lovely weather. "We should go cross-country skiing sometime," Rachel suggested right before a giant snowball caught her in the face. "No head-shots, Mrs. Mosiman," Rachel reminded me, before checking a calendar to schedule a date for our upcoming ski-trip.

Amy Mosiman: Greek Goddess of Modesty

As I believe that the statute of limitations reflecting stupidity has long since expired, it is time to share a little yarn, recounted, year after year, about my career as it dangled precariously by a mere thread, slowly rotating before my horrified eyes.

Once, long ago, there was a little middle school teacher with a passion for Greek Myths. She had accumulated, over the space of many lessons, resources and artifacts to help bring these stories to life, Pygmalion-style. Stern lectures would precede this exhilarating unit, explaining to students how flash photography did not yet exist circa 500 BC so only statues, pottery, and paintings were used to depict the gods and their many diabolically lurid exploits. Hence...there was a LOT of nudity (Now you can see why it is such a popular subject!). We maturely discuss the difference between sophisticated art and dirty pictures before I threaten my scholars with the loss of their scheduled end-of-unit Greek God Gala where we all wear our mother's white sheets to school, hoping no one thinks we're currently engaged in a rowdy re-enactment of key moments from the Civil Rights Movement. Not foolish enough to believe that my stirring speech will keep the hundred roving eyes of my students from seeking the forbidden...knowing that they, like poor Orpheus, will be unable to look away...I spent HOURS carefully coloring bikini briefs and tops on all my Greek Myth figures.

Or I THOUGHT I did.

It was an ordinary type of day when a sudden knock at my classroom door would alter the course of Amy Mosiman's history.

The administrator of ALL administrators was requesting a moment of my time. This was an unusual occurrence (Not like the appearance of a Super Moon which seems to happen every other week...What is with that? There wasn't a single Super Moon when I was growing up and BLAM-O...they're everywhere!). This was an unheard of occurrence. He had NEVER visited my classroom before. I wasn't even sure he'd ever been in my corridor of the school before. I briefly considered what sort of award or accommodation he must surely be presenting me as I ushered him to my back table. I hadn't thrown a kid's sneakers out my first floor window in over a year so it probably wasn't a consultation of my disciplining strategies. I waited with bated breath.

"The 4th grade will be undergoing some major re-structuring next year," my administrator said quickly, getting right to the point, "We'd like you to consider filling one of the anticipated openings."

I stared above his head, seemingly lost in thought. But no. I WASN'T lost in thought. I WASN'T thinking about all the changes ahead of me as I moved to a new room, switching from middle school to elementary, while tackling a whole new curriculum. No. I was staring at an informational art card of the Greek God Apollo, dangling from a string from my ceiling. Apollo. In all his magnificent glory. WITHOUT his colored-on bikini briefs. Spinning, painfully slow, over the head of my administrator. I didn't know where to direct my eyes. I was trapped between a rock and a hard place. Panicked, I squeezed my eyes shut and my boss waited in silence. Concerned (or annoyed) that the weight of this decision might be too much for me to bear, he said, "Perhaps you'd like time to consider your decision and then let me know." Finishing my desperate prayer, I opened my eyes and nodded. He stood, bumping gently against the card, and then walked out of the room. With a herculean effort, I lunged for the card, ripping it down. In no time at all, Apollo was sporting the latest in swim fashion and the two of us would soon be on the way to the 4th grade. A valuable lesson was learned that day. As everything Midas touched turned to gold, every worksheet, book, or resource pertaining to Greek Myths that Amy Mosiman encountered transformed the gods and goddesses to members of the Olympic swim team. Pandora may have let everything out but I am intent on keeping it all covered up.

When is a gift card NOT a gift card?

 It usually takes a lot to get me "steamed" (You'll understand the pun better later), but I was WELL past my boiling point by the time I exited the restaurant last week after I'd gone out to lunch with my daughters.

Let me back up. The hour-long drive to Rochester encourages us to pack as much into each visit as possible. So, naturally, we were looking forward to a special meal. Two of us are BIG fans of fried green tomatoes and barbecue while the third member of our little party tends to be a tad more conservative in her culinary choices. I'm ashamed to admit though, that it was my fist-full of gift cards that ultimately made my decision.

So it was that we went to Cruddy-Crustacean because I foolishly thought it would be economical and because Sydney loves their cheesy biscuits.  With idealistic expectations high, I perused the menu and was delighted that they'd added caprese salad to the menu. I don't mean to brag but I am considered to be the foremost expert of caprese salads in the area ("Area" being the sixteen square feet that surrounds my computer chair). I love the thick, juicy slices of deep red tomato sandwiched between soft cushions of blinding white mozzarella that mimics the texture of a beluga whale. Those of you who have recently consumed beluga whale will know exactly what I mean. Toss in kalamata olives once in awhile for whimsy or go utterly crazy and blow my mind with the addition of avocado. But Cruddy-Crustacean decided to go in another direction altogether. "Is that red onion?" Sydney asked, risking a subtle glance at her sister as I quietly went about removing red onion from my salad with meticulous care. Who the F*$> puts RED ONION in caprese salad?!? I smiled demurely as I batted the unsymmetrical balls of mozzarella around my bowl. The waitress returned to take our order and I sighed (silently) when she told Sydney that the bits of tomato could NOT be removed from the lobster pizza as they came pre-made. Of course they do. It's not like this is some high-falutin place like McDonald's where they can make my food to order. "Two sides come with that," the waitress informed Savannah as she made her selection. I highly recommended the lobster mashed potatoes not realizing that they use a government-cheese-issued sauce to smother it in. After attempting and failing to guide Savannah to the sides in the multi-page menu, Savannah gave up and selected asparagus.

A short time later, I watched Sydney meticulously pick her bits of tomato off of her lobster pizza while I valiantly searched for the crab meat hidden among the breaded mixture that comprised my stuffed mushrooms. For her part, Savannah was quite satisfied with her meal (I ate her potatoes). The bill arrived. Now, I'm no mathematician, but eighty dollars for lunch seemed a bit grandiose. For perhaps the first time in my life, I carefully inspected the totals. "What are you doing?" hissed Savannah, who apparently uses twenty dollar bills to line life's bird cage. "They charged us extra for your two sides," I said with an outrage usually assigned to people who batter baby seals for sport. "Just let it go," Savannah pleaded, acting as though she were suffering from a bout of PTMS (post-traumatic-mom-syndrome).  For goodness sake, the girl acts as though I'd spent the bulk of her lifetime finding ways to humiliate her publicly.

Well. I DID have the gift cards.

Well. I DO have the gift cards.

Having gone to settle our bill (That was less than the gross natural product of some small African nations), the waitress returned quickly to inform us that Cruddy-Crustacean is no longer part of the group that incorporates so many of the fine restaurants many of us visit when we can't actually get to The Dinosaur for fried green tomatoes and barbecue. Savannah and Sydney held their breath as I stared, disbelieving, at the waitress. I was going to have to actually pay eighty dollars of my own money to have picked red onion off a so-called caprese salad and tomato bits off a pre-made lobster pizza?

I wanted to demand to see the manager. I wanted to make a scene. I wanted to march into that "kitchen" and show them how to actually make a caprese salad. And, on my way out, I would stop and warn EVERY table that they charge EXTRA for sides. But I didn't. I sighed and signed the receipt. What would my daughters remember of this day? That I threw a tantrum over eighty bucks at a notoriously sub-par restaurant? Or that I exercised restraint and refused to get ruffled over losing a couple of clams? I won't lie. I was definitely seeing "red" as I left Cruddy-Crustacean but I had bigger fish to fry. Like enjoying time with my daughters.