In the absence of verbs...Communicating at Disneyland

"Savannah! Know what's even better than a single stroller?" I shouted back to my daughter as we fought our way through Frontiertown. "A DOUBLE stroller!" she shouted back, skipping deftly around a sudden left turn made by a fancy 18-wheeled canopied cup-holder bearing a pair of would-be pre-school pedestrians.  To be sure, I'm not passionately-opposed to the train-style tyke trolleys...it's the side-by-side wide-loads of which I am sorely tempted to up-end as I am forced into a maniacal shuffle-step when merging onto a Main Street that is mainly filled with...strollers. And let's get this straight. We ain't strolling. We're stalled.

"Look," I shouted again, pointing, "There's Dumbo!" "Only in Disney could you get away with that," Sydney said, giggling. But apparently you can't get away with everything at Disney. Just that morning, as we pulled up to the parking lot attendant, I rolled down my window to hand her the twenty dollar fee with a cheerful "Feliz Navidad!" I felt a slight shift in the car but ignored it because she smiled and handed me a fistful of candy canes. A small careful voice in the car offered advice in the soft, gentle tones that would accompany instructions for detonating a bomb. "There are some people who might be offended by that greeting," I was informed. Naturally, I exploded. Are you kidding me? Who? Who is offended? Satanists? I can see being offended by my accent but not by my intent. I was so confused. I had offered what I had thought was a culturally-embracing holiday greeting on the most perfect of days in the most perfect of places. It's the home of It's a Small World...not It's a Small-Minded World.

I admit to feeling stymied. Inhibited. Fearful to offend or embarrass. It was when I was in line for Mr. Toad's Wild Ride that I realized how crippling my fear of communicating could be. As the people path wound around and around, we kept passing a family chatting away in sign language. Well-versed in helpful nouns such as giraffe, justice, and rocket, I longed to greet them but bemoaned my lack of verbs. "I'd sound like a caveman grunting," I whispered to Sydney (My apologies for offending any blog readers who happen to be cavemen...). Every week, I introduce my 4th graders to new signs and encourage them to continue developing their sign language vocabularies but here I stood, in line for Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, paralyzed with fear. Would I offend them by stumbling through my holiday greeting? What if they asked me a question that required a predicate? Could I slip the word giraffe into casual conversation? Why didn't I learn the sign for toad? Could I improvise by morphing the signs for bunny and turtle but then how do I generate a gender term for an animal? Man-bunny-turtle? It was almost time to get on the ride. It was now or never. Flushed, I tapped one of the men on the shoulder and signed Merry Christmas. He lit up and tapped his wife's shoulder so I could greet her too. Grinning, they signed thank you and very good. We waved and then I was stuffed into Mr. Toad's automobile for a quick get-away that required no verbs.

I offend a LOT of people. Rarely is that my goal. I am quick-to-speak rather than quick-to-think and my humor is often not as relate-able as I would hope. Cynicism and sarcasm are my primary languages. But I am also pretty fluent in the universal languages of love, friendship, and compassion. Or at least I have a working familiarity. Words are words. Open for interpretation and debate. But what is the intent with which they are voiced? Be careful, little ears, what you hear. Listen for the love. Listen for the sometimes frail, fearful attempt to make a connection. Ignore the poor grammar, the sometimes ignorant societal references, the morphing of unconventional nouns, the absence of verbs...listen with your heart instead of your political ideals, your causes, your pride. You wouldn't want anyone pointing you out in a crowd and yelling, "Look! There's Dumbo!"

Getting an assist in behavior management

Ask any teacher, the last few weeks leading to Christmas are soul-suckingly indescribable. "What are we doing?" one of my 9-year-old scholars asked on Tuesday, December 11th when I instructed them to turn to page 47 in their math textbook. "We're factoring to determine which numbers are composite versus prime," I explained, confused. "But it's almost Christmas," came the answering whine. Oh boy.

I have a built-in ten minutes of recess loosely scheduled every day with the numbers 10-1 written vertically on my dry erase board. Students can earn and lose recess minutes based on their behavior and my mood. Let's just say that, yesterday, the children were introduced to negative numbers. "Say Santa again," I snarled, holding the eraser threateningly over my head.

Classroom management in December is considered an oxymoron. But we still try. While shopping solo a little while ago, I'd stumbled into a Five Below store. Apparently, my husband has been lying to me for years, telling me that it sold cheap clothes costing five dollars or less. For a teacher, stepping across the threshold of a Five Below store is like a five-year-old busting through a turnstile at Disney. I immediately grabbed a giant package of candy buttons before filling my arms with fifty dollars worth of useless garbage. Case-in-point: Basketball head. I admit it. I squealed when I saw it. Not only did the box contain the net apparatus that you strap attractively to your head, it also included twenty colorful balls. Twenty. Guess how many students I have? Yeah. TWENTY. Obviously...this was ordained by God.

Naturally there were doubters. How was this FIVE DOLLAR item going to positively affect my behavior management plan for a month already spiraling out of control? I wrote each student's name on their colorful ball which had to be in their possession each time we lined up in the hall. I QUICKLY learned to say "colorful ball" because yelling "Grab your balls" in a 4th grade classroom doesn't sound very lady-like. If anyone uttered a sound as we traversed to our destination, they relinquished their colorful ball, losing their chance to try and either (A) Shoot a basket or (B) Hit the classmate wearing the net apparatus in the face at the end of the day. If you made a basket, you didn't have to complete that night's math worksheet. If you hit your pal in the face...well, that was reward enough.

And for two weeks, it has worked. I have one more day of school remaining before break and then I'll retire baskethead until next year. It's always better to leave them wanting more. I'm sure when they return following their Christmas vacation, they will be feeling refreshed and revived...eager to learn. Oh my goodness, I am SO tired. I'm delusional. An anonymous Christmas elf slipped me twenty dollars to spend on the betterment of my classroom. At this point, that could mean Five Below or tequila.

Bad days are relative

 I was on my way to a funeral...

Not only was it true but it also conveniently works as a literary device foreshadowing the approach of a series of dire circumstances that will ultimately impede the journey of our protagonist (me).

Unable to locate any funeral dirge songs on my truck radio, I made do with Maroon 5's sad lament, Payphone. Suddenly, I realized that I had to sing MUCH louder to compete with the sounds coming from beneath the Titan. Hmmm...I thought to myself... I must be developing a little hole in my muffler. Undaunted, I continued my quest, making the necessary adjustments by turning up the radio. As I drove through town, I was pleased to notice so many infused with the holiday spirit, enthusiastically waving to me. As Adam Levine and I paused to take a breath, though, I heard a somewhat more concerning sound. Sort of a rattle, rattle, bump, bump, grind, grind, thunk. Hmmm...I thought to myself, glancing with concern at the time...perhaps I should take a little peekie before proceeding.

A pause in a parking lot revealed that my pilgrimage was not just momentarily postponed...it was cancelled. I regarded my muffler solemnly as it sat, wedged between the undercarriage of my truck and the asphalt of the parking lot. Sighing, I kneeled down to tentatively poke at it. Glancing at my watch, I calculated the arrival of my soon-to-be-notified hero. Three hours. This part was tricky. Do I leave the muffler alone and invite a slightly-scornful oration on how I should be able to think for myself or wiggle under my truck and tackle the problem head-on? Likening the muffler to a dangling  molar, I debated twisting it off. I knew, at the very least, I needed to get the muffler off the ground so I tucked it gently up onto a handy little shelf nearby. And then settled in to wait. The three hours seemed to practically fly by.

Knowing that I was upset about missing the funeral, Brad was gentle and kind as he assessed the situation. "What'cha got going on down here?" he asked, his voice rising calmly from beneath the truck. I explained my idea for elevating the muffler. "So you jammed it up into the transmission?" Brad clarified, nodding solemnly, "Solid plan."

After he wired the muffler up, he declared that it was time for a Pepsi. Marching over to a vending machine, he sought to purchase a salve for my bruised spirit. "I'm so sorry," he said, handing me a can of soda that clearly WASN'T a Pepsi. It was time to call it a day. When I finally got home, I realized that my dear friend, having received my apologetic text that I wasn't going to make it to her dad's funeral, had responded, telling me how sorry SHE was that I was having a bad day. Sigh. Sometimes you just have to suck down the soda that clearly isn't a Pepsi, stuff your muffler up into your transmission (No...that ISN'T a euphemism!), and quit your whining. Because on that particular day, I had absolutely NOTHING to complain about...except that I couldn't be with my friend to support her on one of the days where she needed me most.

Stuff it, Santa! Stop being nice to me!

 Turns out that I am just as bad a gift-receiver as I am a gift-giver. My face never knows what to do. I am awkward and seemingly ungracious when faced with a present. "Seemingly?" Brad scoffed.

Again. Not his blog.

I am aware that I have control issues. "Really?" My husband asked incredulously.

Shhhhhhh.

But there is nothing worse than the one-sided gift-exchange. "Oh! Something for me! How thoughtful and selfless and kind! Here is NOTHING in return!"

Is it selfless? Is it? IS IT!?!?!

How DARE you think of me! How dare you buy/make me something that you think I would like and appreciate. Curses!

But IS there anything worse than the one-sided gift-exchange? I wouldn't have thought so until...I was TORMENTED by the anonymous one-sided gift-exchange this year!!!

I abhor the Secret Santa...believing that it spreads a candy cane-like contagion rather than good cheer. Secret Santa festers in dark places...sneaking thin, Christmas-themed socks onto your desk, hiding inappropriately-shaped holiday chocolates in your filing cabinet, tucking snarky coffee mugs into your bag. No, I state decisively. Secrets and surprises are Satan's stocking stuffers.

So imagine my dismay when I discovered, tucked around my dachshund-themed nativity adorning my hallway cubbies, the addition of a beautifully-crafted dachshund ornament. What is this? I wondered, much as the Wise-men must have marveled at the sudden appearance of that star. I glanced up and down the corridor, hoping to catch a glimpse of my kind benefactor so that I might thank him/her. I then began a massive man-hunt that would make Tommy Lee Jones look like he was trying to track down tube socks rather than the fugitive. I conducted a large-scale investigation, questioned possible suspects, attempted to access the school security system...but to no avail.

And then ANOTHER ornament arrived. Snicker-doodle and ginger snap! Please excuse my language. "Can I borrow your trail-cam?" I asked Brad. He frowned, like I was asking to use a hammer. "Can't you just enjoy that someone is being nice to you?" he asked. I thought about it. No.

Then an envelope arrived. Good! DNA! Fingerprint analysis! Then I realized that the two cases were not related (except there are, apparently, TWO wackos out there who SELFISHLY enjoy making others happy.). I was overwhelmed. It was crushing...this much love. I didn't deserve it. All I ever do is complain and make sarcastic remarks.

Another day dawned. Clean slate. I could maybe go back to the business of being miserable. And...if I was lucky, making others a little bit miserable with me.

But, no. Could it be? ANOTHER dachshund ornament? I had never verbalized my secret dream of

one day festooning my fir with my favorite furry friend. Boughs bending beneath the weight of whimsical dachshund ornaments. The tree twinkling from the glow of tiny dachshund lights. A dachshund angel atop the tannenbaum.

Thank you, dear friends, for reminding me that Christmas is not a time of "deserves." Certainly NONE of us deserved the great Gift of that first Christmas. And none of us has "deserved" any gift that came after. I am a whiny, complain-y, selfish, and sarcastic woman...undeserving but blessed...incredibly blessed with loving friends. Thank you.

I thought we were on a roll...How to ruin Bible Reading Family Time

 I miss my girls so much. Eleven months hasn't done much to ease the ache in my heart. Savannah was home briefly over Thanksgiving and changed the toilet paper...a feat that would have resulted in a parade during her high school years. After she left, I sadly watched the dwindling roll...unraveling like my heart strings. To Brad's disgust and dismay, I verbally chronicled the scroll as it grew smaller and smaller, near tears as it eventually disappeared. I wanted to leave the empty roll as a testament to my grief but Brad was NOT having it.

Desperate for a connection that would span those overwhelming 3,000 miles, I decided to invite the girls to join Brad and I in our daily advent reading of the Book of Luke throughout December. "They didn't want to read the Bible with us when they lived here," Brad pointed out, "What makes you think that they'll do it now?" I thought about it until inspiration hit. "I'll make it a contest! There'll be a sticker chart!""

Sydney graciously accepted my invitation. Savannah, however, suspicious of being manipulated, held back. During the first day's Mystery Question, Savannah had gone phone-silent. On what day are male children circumcised? I asked. From 3,000 miles away, I could FEEL Savannah's angst as she read, with astonishment, her sister's rapid-fire answers as she shot them at us, narrowly missing the target answer with each text. While Savannah may not always be motivated by good works or her love of family, she will consistently be motivated to crush others competitively. The game was on!

Naturally, it didn't go the way I imagined. I envisioned a coast-to-coast reading of God's Word, our souls connected in a spiritual realm that superseded time and distance. Instead, cheating, trash-talk, and all-out-warfare ruled the day.

A beautifully bonding family moment has turned ugly. Who says Suck it, Savannah! while reading the Bible? Apparently one Mystery Question was addressed at a bar. Fortunately, a Cliff Clavin was available as a Christian consultant.

Maybe I should go back to considering on-line chess as a way to stay connected to my daughters. Or postcards. Postcards are sweet. You can't corrupt a postcard. Well...? I thought you couldn't corrupt Family Bible-Reading Time either.

Ruh Roh, Mrs. Mosiman!

 It's that time of year where, I'm ashamed to admit, I have trouble feeling grateful. Instead, I am feeling grumpy and rushed; quick to criticize rather than compliment. So it's also the time of year where I pull out my journal and begin my daily recording of "No Fewer Than Five Good Things." Until I get back into the swing of things, growing practiced in the art of looking for the good, my lists are pretty basic and usually center around food. This year, I dragged my 4th graders along for the ride and was immediately humbled. "My mom got a job," one nine-year-old wrote (The same day that I was expressing thanks for a particularly fresh Pepsi). "We might get our camper this week-end to live in while our house is being repaired from the fire," was another entry. I had eaten a candy cane-flavored marshmallow Peep that day. It was good.

Okay. Message received. I need to stop whining. I am surrounded by smiles and simple kindness.

Every day is a blessing. No...I am NOT being sarcastic. Today, for instance, a small miracle occurred. Due to a manufacturing error (also known as an act of God), TWO of my string cheeses were packaged in the SAME wrapper! I had paid for twelve and, instead, received the proverbial baker's dozen...dairy-style.

Sometimes you have to fight hard to find the good. One of my sweet cherubs lit right up at the sight of me today. Racing towards me, she exclaimed, "Mrs. Mosiman! You look like you could be from Scooby-Doo!" This was NOT the precise reaction I was going for when I carefully selected my purple shirt with hunter green pants combo. Robin Hood maybe. Scooby-Doo? No. I racked my brain, trying to figure out which character she was eluding too. I immediately eliminated Fred and Velma and then hoped against hope that she meant Daphne but since Daphne's style is more in the sleuth-schoolgirl-slut range, I attempted to cushion my pride and self-esteem, accepting that, in this child's eyes, I was Shaggy. We do share a love of food. And if there is even the REMOTEST chance that a monster or ghost is in the vicinity, my legs will immediately begin that windmilling running action in the opposite direction. "Thank you," I said, smiling at my little honey as I quickly deduced that, on the scale of compliment versus criticism, her comment was weighed by love.