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.
No comments:
Post a Comment