I don't mean to pry...Amy's rib-tickling, injury-inducing adventures

 I am not a "suffer in silence" type of gal.

I am a whiner/complainer, by nature.

You know exactly where I stand...until I couldn't actually stand.

Over the course of the last several months, mornings have become a new definition in pain as my body would buckle the minute my feet hit the floor.

Plantar fasciitis strikes life-long athletes and the chronically obese. 

I knew all those marathons would eventually catch up with me.

I pray daily. For my mom. Brad's safety in travel. My daughters and their partners. My friends...students...colleagues. I pray in gratitude and in supplication. I apologize incessantly. I pray for Amber Alerts...lost dogs...wisdom and discernment for our world-wide leaders. 

Rarely do I pray for myself.

It feels selfish somehow. This pain might be an opportunity to grow as a person...to develop character traits such as perseverance and drive...to encourage empathy for the discomfort of others...to offer me perspective.

But...c'mon. Ouch.

So I prayed.

And promptly broke my middle toe. The f-me toe. 

Are you kidding me?

I was wearing my cute, designed-to-alleviate-the-discomfort-that-accompanies-plantar-fasciitis open-toed sandals (Thank you, Traci!) when I tripped over my mobile Smartboard. Stifling the string of profanity that would normally accompany such an event, I glanced down to see the pool of blood christening my new shoe. My 4th graders were returning from a special so I hurriedly wrapped my toes in a tissue and hobbled on with my day.

It wasn't until I got home that I realized that I'd done more damage than I'd imagined.

First, I had to wrestle my fat foot out of its now too-tight sandal.

Once I cleaned the blood off, I could see that my middle toe was swollen to the size of my big toe, the captain. Oh brother. Plantar fasciitis to the right. Broken toe to the left. I glanced up. "Sorry I said anything," I muttered as, like Ol' Mother Hubbard,  I hobbled off in search of some medical tape except my medicine cabinet was bare. I finally tracked down the Jesus band-aids that we had left over from youth group. "Jesus saves," I winced as I began the process of taping my injured toe to the lieutenant. One band-aid was not enough. Nor two. Nope...I needed the trinity.

It hurt. 

A lot.

So, yeah...I prayed again.

Brad declared that we would spend Sunday afternoon planting our blueberry bushes.

Which meant that we would first harvest badminton shuttlecocks from the field and raspberry patch. Fill up the bird feeders. And address the retaining wall issues that keep us (him) up at night. My husband pried a crowbar between two waist-high cement blocks and then asked if I could hold it steady while he struck the ends with a sledge hammer. Why...this sounds delightful! This doesn't feel like a triggering point for an epic argument at all. Using my puny T-Rex arms, I grasped the crowbar and immediately felt the reverberation of the sledge hammer. Scared, I adjusted my stance and decided to put my body weight to good use, bending my torso over the top of the bar and bearing down. As Brad did his best John Henry, I hung over the crowbar like a damp washcloth. 

Until...I suddenly felt a flare of pain. The crowbar slipped between my ribs, punctuated by another rail strike from Mr. Man versus the machine. I gasped. Then gasped again when the gasp caused pain. Oh no. What did I do? I remained immobile as Brad completed his task. As the girl who cried wolf (a lot), I was reluctant to tell my husband as I've used hangnails and canker sores to excuse myself from manual labor in the past. 

I questioned myself. 

Maybe I was being dramatic. (Ya think?)

Retaining wall in place...we made it to the berries (Finally).

We (he) also decided to unpack the storage shed to extricate the fire pit table. AND lift the push mower from where it was perched on top of the riding lawn mower. My elbows were sweating and I couldn't breathe. "Brad," I hissed, as I stumbled after him down a small hill as we carried our fire pit table to its destination...my toe was throbbing, my plantar fasciitis ached, and I was going to pass out from lack of oxygen to my lungs. "Brad, I think I did a thing."

My little ordeals have done wonders to spark empathy in my classroom. Explaining my situation, my students began picking pencils up off the floor themselves after witnessing me near-tears when I would attempt to stoop down. Hugs were rendered gently, gingerly. I was helped out of chairs. Impending sneezes resulted in 18 hands lifted, Come-to-Jesus-style, as they mentally tried to help me ward off the threatening, rib-splitting spasm. 

As we debated the timeless question of why, one of my honeys offered sage but brutal insight:  It can always get worse. If I had to choose among (a) plantar fasciitis, (b) plantar fasciitis and a broken toe, and (c) plantar fasciitis, a broken toe, and separated ribs, I choose option A. 

I don't believe that I was re-enacting a modern version of Job although I suspect that God might have been playing with me, just a bit, these last few weeks. Suck it up, girlfriend, and look around you. Your problems are minuscule compared to countless others. This was not a cosmic wrestling match between God and the devil for my soul. I'm solidly a Team Jesus type of girl. Plus, I don't play the violin.

Or, I might just be marginally over my ideal weight, clumsy, and too stupid to use a crow bar correctly.

I prefer to think that it was a spiritual lesson designed to help me grow as a person and gain some much-needed perspective.

"In gaining all this perspective," my friend, Rachel asked, "Did it ever occur to you to maybe go to the doctor?"

"For a broken toe?" I smiled, "I can heel at home just fine."

Check it out: Aisle'll be seeing you

Read more about 
Amy T here

  My time in the grocery store check-out aisle is typically spent mentally sharpening my epic state capital knowledge, deep breathing, or implementing the tried-and-true see something/smell something/feel something/hear something strategy in an attempt to quell the anxiety I feel being channeled into a narrow cattle stanchion in an acoustically unpleasant, falsely-lit building, anticipating the inevitable meaningless small talk that is about to occur.

And then it happened.

A familiar voice...like an angel.

I was transported back in time before being swept up into the arms of my dear friend. We had a shared history, having grown up in the same small town (although Amy was MUCH cooler and MUCH older than me so we didn't exactly hang out back then). Destiny would reunite us when I decided to (temporarily) depart from a life of darkness and debauchery to attend church and discovered Amy was a key member of the staff. We had eyed each other warily when we realized that both of us possessed private, personal information about one another that could either make us mortal enemies or lifelong friends. We then embarked on life-altering mini-mission trips where we held each other accountable in not killing the teens entrusted to our care. We floated down rivers, performed varying degrees of manual labor, and were raucous room-mates who were repeatedly reprimanded for our inappropriate conversation topics and immature giggling.

And then...there she was.

She'd been state hopping over the last few years.

As my husband methodically bagged our groceries, Amy and I fell back into conversation like we'd only been apart a day rather than years.

There...in the cramped grocery store aisle, I was immediately granted access to her biggest secret. A girl! A girl! Blessed with enough grandsons to man a basketball team, Amy now had a beautiful grand-daughter to add to the team as well. I was thrilled to celebrate with my friend.

Suddenly, a sharp voice jarred our jubilant dancing.

"Amy!"

The groceries were bagged. My husband and the cashier were waiting for me to pay for our purchases. The line behind us had grown without our noticing. Oh.

Amy and I turned to Brad who suddenly looked sheepish, realizing that he'd just yelled at not ONE, but TWO Amys. 

Reuniting with a dear friend...sharing in her good news...AND annoying Brad?

I can honestly say this was the most fun I've ever had in a grocery store check-out line.

Take me out to the ball game (as long as it's at The K)

I am an adopted member of the Kansas City Royals family, surrounded by an all-encompassing blue cloud of enthusiasm emanating, year-round, from my husband and brother-in-law as they wait, excitedly, for the beginning of each baseball season. My daughters were raised beneath a blue banner. Brad and his brother bleed, Royal blue. 

This year was especially exciting as Mosimans from across America migrated to their home stadium: The K. Alaska, Texas, Iowa, California, and New York vacated their nests and high-tailed it to Kansas City. "I only packed three Royals shirts," I fussed, worriedly, unpacking my suitcase. "We're only here three days." Savannah answered, always secure beneath the rim of her Royals ball cap, "How many shirts did you plan on wearing in that time span?"

I fan-girled HARD as I approached the stadium. I could catch a glimpse of The K's famous "hydration station," the tiered water fountain that frames the scoreboard. A staff member greeted us warmly as we approached the ticket gate. Let's be real...EVERY staff member of the K greeted us warmly. But Tori chatted us up as we waited in line, smiling as I told her how excited I was to attend my first game at Kaufmann Stadium. She told me that I could receive a certificate chronicling this day. We ditched Tori as the crowd surged forward to receive their game day momento. It was bobble-head day at The K! I watched bewildered as Jeff (representing the Iowa contingency) practically swatted away the hand offering him his bobble-head. He circled back around when we yelled after him. Gripping his bobble-head, he explained, "I thought they were selling Girl Scout cookies."

We quickly found our seats and then I was off, ready to explore the stadium and stand by the fountain that I've seen on TV for years. Did you know that, when inspiration for the design struck, it was initially sketched on a napkin? Kaufmann Stadium is so kid-friendly. They have an entire area set aside for a mini-mini-golf course, a carousel, a timed base run track, and more. Brad and I visited the Royals Hall of Fame museum where we encountered Tori again. I was oogling George Brett's bat (No, that was NOT meant to sound naughty) when she popped up to remind me to get my certificate. I turned to Brad, startled. How on earth had she remembered me? I was too embarrassed to tell her that I'd ended up eschewing my dream of playing mini-mini-golf at the K (and now, asking for a certificate) because I didn't want to seem silly and immature. Which is utterly ridiculous because I AM silly and immature.

We returned to our seats to enjoy the game. The energy of the stadium was electric. Music. Fireworks. Fun. Family. A grasshopper took a time-out on my finger for a bit and I dubbed him my "home run hopper." Sydney and I gasped when the vendors began walking about, selling strawberry kabobs. Savannah slipped me shelled peanuts, one-by-one, like I was a little monkey. Brad bought me a ridiculously bright beverage that gave me a brain-freeze with every sip but I didn't care. We sang. We danced. We groaned and cheered. Celebrated...commiserated...and sympathized with one another. Melendez hit his home run and we raised the roof. Savannah laughed when I loudly complained that my bobble-head wasn't on the field. I lobbed fun facts between pitches and smiled when Brad's childhood slipped out every time he said "enning" the mid-west way.

We would have left happy, no matter what, but the 3-0 win certainly didn't hurt.

The next day, as our family members flew the coop, my husband asked how I wanted to spend the remainder of our time before our evening flight.

Yup. Back to The K we went.

And yup. There was Tori.

And by the 6th "enning," she made sure that my certificate was filled out and in my hands. The athletes were on the field but the superstars were in the stands with the fans, elevating the game to a whole other level with their smiles, helpful and accommodating assistance, and above-expectation service. 

So now you know why The K gets an A in my book.

Instead of foie gras, I should have just ordered quackers

Everything is a struggle.

Everything.

Our Airbnb thoughtfully left laminated menus of the local restaurants in the kitchen which then spurred a lively (and exasperating) two hour debate of dining destinations. Fanning out our choices like a deck of poker cards, we each had an ace in the hole, unwilling to gamble on a lousy club sandwich.

Sydney (whose primary diet consists of boiled hot dogs, Bagel Bites, and cheap wine) kept insisting on a nearby pretentious (or as pretentious as you can possibly get in Kansas City where Brad got into a maddening wave-on war with merging traffic..."No, you go." "No, I couldn't possibly. You go." "I'm sure where you're going is time sensitive. You should go."  "My wife is seven centimeters dilated but she'd never forgive me if I didn't let you merge first") pub because her hunger over-rode her common sense. "Sydney, I don't know 3/4s of the words on this menu," I told her, raising my voice to be heard over her uncle's passionate discourse. 

This, of course, spurred an enthusiastic investigation of the whimsical word, "quark." A google tour taught us to be careful because quark could curdle when cooked. "So is it a yogurt or is it a cheese?" Douglas asked as I tossed out fifty fun facts about quark. Tapping into his math brain, I compared it to the age-old paradox that every square is a rectangle but not all rectangles are squares. Douglas didn't actually care. He just wanted to eat. And, preferably, NOT quark.

So, yeah. Of course.

Quark it is.

Except it wasn't.

Imagine my disappointment (and Doug's delight) when we discovered that they were out of quark. "I don't even know what quark is...how could you possibly be out of it?" I asked, paralyzed with indecision as I had no back-up plan. 

And that is how I ended up with foie gras.

Obviously I didn't have ample time to research and, in my quest to become a fearless, adventure eater, veered off my moral meal road and merged onto an inescapable, unethical exit to Hell. Foie gras is tasty but tasteless. It should have come with a warning label. My apologies to male ducks and geese for my indiscreet choice. 

It was not surprising that, in a city famous for meat, the name Temple Grandin would be invoked as I described her innovative design for the calmly concise method of channeling cattle through the meat-packing process. "Nature is cruel," she had said, "but we don't have to be." 

THIS is why I prefer lab-originated, highly-processed foods ridden with unpronounceable names with questionable and concerning long-term health effects on my quality of life. MY quality of life. Not some mild-mannered little mallard just trying to live his best life without our liver-inflating tube being jammed down his throat. 

I went from quark to quack and just completely ducked up.

Sydney wisely ordered fries. 

"Your french fries are delicious," I said, snagging my third, fourth and fifteenth, guilt-free.

"They're not French," Sydney said, shooting a wink at her father who was picking up the bill, "They're Portu-geese."

 

Leave the winter coat. Take the chocolates.

 You could feel it in the air (Are you humming the song now?). Like the planets lining up, the Mosimans were converging...shooting like little Mosiman meteors across the sky. Alaska. Texas. California. New York. Iowa. Meeting in Kansas City to watch the Royals play.

Airports tend to cause me a bit of anxiety so I was relieved that Brad would be accompanying me. Our flight departed at 6:30 am so we left the house at the reasonable time of 4:30, when I am at my brightest and bushiest. Talking is not in my skill-set at this hour. Functioning at any level is not in my skill-set at this hour. Brad Mosiman is at his most cheerful and his chattiest at this hour. Kill me now.

He watched me wrestle out of my winter coat and toss it in the back of the truck during the drive. "Are you not taking it?" he asked, annoying me by simply existing, let alone asking me obvious questions. I grunted in response. "Mornings will be in the 40s," he told me (like I'd ASKED for a weather report). Fine. I'd take the frickin' coat. I was already down to one pair of jeans and had to give up my robe and slippers to make room for the Oliver's Easter chocolates I'd packed for everyone. Brad and I had spent hours and arguments picking out the best character representative for each member of our party. "How many sweatshirts do you need?" Brad had asked, noting the lack of space for his wardrobe in our shared checked bag. Are you kidding me? He expected me to wear the same pair of jeans AND the same sweatshirt for three days? 

So after Brad stuffed our truck into a space best suited for a scooter, I grabbed my winter coat for the dash across three football fields to get to the airport. "I thought you were going to leave it," he commented, as he goaded me along. "You said it was going to be 40 degrees," I gasped, out of breath. "It's kind of bulky," he observed. My scream of frustration echoed across the parking garage. 

We arrived at the service desk. The empty service desk.

I could feel Brad glancing at me. Glaring at me. 

"It's too late to check your bag," the agent informed me. The only thing saving me was my husband's poor hearing. He had no idea what was going on. I had heard her perfectly and I had no idea what was going on. Blink. Blink. What? Annoyed, she consulted her colleague several times. Tap her keyboard furiously. Squint at the screen."We might have to put you on another flight." Blink. Blink. What? Tap her keyboard even more furiously. Squint at the screen. "We should be able to get you on this flight but not your bag." Blink. Blink. What? Rapid fire key strokes. "We might be able to get your bag on but we can't guarantee that'll arrive with you."  Blink. Blink. Brad and I watched in horror as the colleague grabbed our poor bag, heaved it angrily above her head to WWE slam it onto the belt. Its badly beaten body bounced once before the carcass, with its obviously crushed chocolate organs, was whisked away. Blink. Blink. 

Brad and I were the last ones to board the plane. My fanatically punctual husband was NOT happy. "How does this feel?" he asked as we did the shuffle of shame down the narrow airplane aisle, hoping to embed this memory into my mind. "Not my first rodeo," I tossed back, his exasperated sigh pushing me along.

I slithered into my seat, the weight of emotion finally catching up to me. Brad wrestled me into my seat belt, stuffing my giant coat and my backpack out of the way. By this point, my communication skills had completely shut down. I couldn't tell Brad that my backpack was my comfort item that I cling to. He promptly fell asleep (while the plane idled for 45 minutes to document a paint scratch on the wing) while I gazed longingly at my out-of-reach backpack filled with miniature peppermint patties. 

Things turned around in Chicago. Typically, I despise Chicago for its unforgivable absence of an Aunt Annie's pretzel kiosk. "Check your gate," our pilot told us as we raced fifty other planes to their parking spots, "as we'll be stationed at echo concourse." Echo. What? I've never been in E. 

And guess what's in E? Hello, Aunt Annie!

And then, finally, in Kansas City...our bag! 

We made it! (Well, except for Lisa's chocolate. Her horse had been beheaded. But in a city known for the meat and the mob, that seemed appropriate.)

May I suggest, dahling, wearing your insecurity like a cape? Put it behind you.

So, it's all about intent.

At least, that's what I kept telling myself.

She who takes offense when no offense is intended is a fool...(Brigham Young OR one of his fifty wives)

As usual, there I was...minding my own business...okay, actually, no...I wasn't. But, still...

My friend Katriel was pet-sitting so I decided to pop in quick to peek at her pig. My daughter, Sydney had had two guinea pigs growing up and I had developed an affection for the quirky little critters. I caught Katriel in the instructional phase as the family was providing her with poignant pig pointers. A young man in the group spotted me as I walked in and jumped up excitedly. Pointing at me, he yelled the word "incredible." Naturally, I blushed. 

Katriel frowned.  Jealous. 

I attempted to re-direct the room's attention to the more obvious star of the show, our wee whiskered rodent, but this young man would not be thwarted (and who could blame him? C'mon.). Again, I could only make out part of his message. "You look...incredible." Katriel was now shoulder-to-shoulder with me, standing perpendicular to me and my new admirer. She just has to have ALL the attention.

"Edna Mode," the teen-age boy spoke again to me, inexplicably lapsing into a foreign tongue. I curtsied.  Exasperated by my poor hearing and my horrendous gap of knowledge regarding any cartoon movie created after 2002, Katriel decided to interpret. "He says you look like Edna Mode from The Incredibles," she told me, ready to block my physical assault upon her well-meaning relative. I stood frozen, searching my mental files. I am a 4th grade teacher, after all. "Is that the tiny androgynous scientist?" I asked. "She's more of an engineer who designs superhero suits," my admirer corrected. Katriel now had a firm grip on my arm, gently passing me a guinea pig to use as a soothing fidget toy. 

I had given up trying to look like Jen Aniston. 

I was thrilled when I'd accidentally stumbled onto my signature look of bangs with an inverted bob. I fancied myself a distant relative of Uma Thurman. It was a welcomed relief from my Little Dutch Boy days. But this...?

Peering around Katriel as I stroked the rough fur of the now-purring pig, I took note of the utter delight of this young man. I had once been compared to Nanny McPhee by a student in a similar situation (sans pig) who had been devastated by my offense because he had meant it (in his weird little way) as a compliment. And in this case, as well, Katriel's cousin had also been complimentary in his quest to communicate. 

Further research into my cartoon caricature revealed that this situation could have been MUCH worse. Upon being reunited with Mr. Incredible in the movie, my pint-sized pairing was quoted as saying, "My God, you've gotten fat." 

I'll take "You look (like Edna Mode from The) incredible(s)!" any day.