Stick a sock in it!

Look...I tried. There is irrefutable evidence that I did my very best to embrace the seasonal spirit. Sweaters, cards, fudge, and festivities...I Bob-Cratchitted the hell of the holidays. But it's never enough. The merry-making just won't stop. Even a decisively-shut door can't keep Christmas out.

It's called "You've been socked," and it's supposed to be delightful. And even though I've been trying to channel Dickens...because I'm TRYING...allow me to divert to another prestigious literary figure, Cal Naughton, Jr. from The Ballad of Ricky Bobby who once threatened to "sock" someone straight in the face. That's how I feel about the "You've been socked" activity. My friend, George usually protects me, squirreling away a counterfeit sign proclaiming to the world that I'd already been "socked," but he's since been banished to the opposite side of the building. So every day, I waited in fear, for someone to "sock" my door with a stocking full of fun...forcing me to reciprocate.

As each day passed, my resentment grew. How dare they foist fun on me! I'd give them a stocking full of "fun." [Insert evil, maniacal laughter here.] Despite the on-point messaging, a stocking full of feces was out of the question. But I refused...REFUSED...on principle, to fill a sequined stocking full of cute candy canes. I refused to give joy a firm foothold...it was time to infuse some reality and reason into the season. In other words, when it came to being "socked," I was going to be a real "heel."

The much-anticipated day arrived...accompanied by the dreaded knock...knock...knocking on my classroom door. My 4th graders squealed with delight over the whimsical, hand-drawn note and suckers. That's about right. I nodded with approval over this subliminally-subtle sugar-ed subsidy. We're all a bunch of suckers for condoning and propagating this merry little mission of fun.

My 9-year-olds fell silent as they watched me stuff spiders back into the empty stocking. I would have added coal but I'd been regularly doling it out to my own students so I was in short-supply. A classroom debate raged as we considered the lucky recipient of our gift. "First graders won't understand Mrs. Mosiman's humor," one student argued. "No one understands Mrs. Mosiman's humor," her friend countered. I made a mental note to replenish my dwindling coal supply. 

It was determined that only their fellow 4th graders could withstand the emotional impact of receiving a stocking full of spiders. It was delivered with ninja-like precision while the rest of us hummed The Mission Impossible theme. We were devastated, later, to learn that our message had missed its target. "How did you like your stocking?" one of my kids casually asked at lunch, as inconspicuous as a break-up billboard on the I-90. Sipping his chocolate milk reflectively, the boy informed my student that HIS teacher had announced that Mrs. Mosiman was too cheap and lazy to fill their stocking with appropriate items and instead used her left-over Halloween garbage. Room 24 was shocked and stunned. Our intent had been misinterpreted. Our message misaligned.

"Maybe it was a little too political for this group," my kids said, trying to reassure me, "Not everyone is capable of our elevated, high-brow, sophisticated humor," they soothed. They were right, of course. Next time, we'll be much more to the point and fill our stocking with laundry lint and dum dum pops.