The Mosiman Crafty Christmas was snow joke

It began, as all great ideas do, with over-idealized notions of stream-lined simplicity and cost-cutting which would result, of course, in a love-inspired, meaningful gift destined to be a treasured family heirloom passed down through the generations. What would be created from an enthusiastic suggestion in Austin in August would be the answer to that question:  If you could save only one item from your burning house, what would it be?

"Crafty Christmas?" my husband said, scowling as he rolled my luggage to the van. "What does that mean, exactly?" 

"It means," our daughter Savannah told him, later on the phone, "that Mom and Lisa finally found a way to ruin Christmas."

Not true.

Sure, Lisa and I aren't exactly fond of receiving presents and tend to get very over-whelmed when facing the flood of festive bowed bestowed blessings beneath the tree, each one labeled with our name and ticking like a time-bomb. Even in August, we could feel the pressure building.

"We should keep it simple this year," someone said and the starter pistol went off before Savannah could get ahead of the pack. 

The rules were easy.

Make. A. Present.

Reluctantly...begrudgingly...resignedly...sacrificially...Brad asked what I had in mind.

Excitedly...short-sightedly...stupidly...I happily told him. "Remember when Sydney was kicking around
doing engraved wine bottle bottom coasters for the guest gifts for her wedding and we science-experimented it out for her and realized the logistics were too time-consuming and complicated?"

Brad nodded slowly before adding, "And dangerous."

I brushed his comment off.

"So, anyway, we are going to make an engraved wine bottle bottom ornament of everyone's dogs!"

"Interesting," my husband said quietly. He kept mum on the subject, hoping that I would forget this ridiculous idea, until one grim day in October, he watched me lug a half dozen empty wine bottles into the house.

We watched several Youtube tutorials. Made do with the wrong equipment. Improvised. Failed. Failed. Drew blood. Failed. Got burned. Failed. Discussed the short-comings in our relationship. Failed. Cast blame. Called each other names. And eventually ended up with three semi-workable wine bottle bottoms with edges so sharp they could double as those ninja throwing stars.

Brad ordered a special sander so that no one would accidentally die as a result of hanging up their ornament.

He also donned a special filtered mask designed to keep him from inhaling mircoscopic glass shards into his lungs. It didn't help his poor arms. "Maybe you should have worn a long-sleeved shirt," I observed helpfully. "Maybe you should have just left Christmas alone," he snapped, unnecessarily, at me.

We observed the final products.

Fire-scorched black. Misshapen. Hideous.

"You're going to etch the features of their dogs on these?" Brad asked.

I was beginning to have some doubts about the viability of my project.

"Ya think?" Brad said. "Now? NOW you are having doubts?" He paused to re-group. "Maybe we could tell them that these are artifacts that we recovered from our secret trip to Pompeii."

Funny.

But that idea led to our second ornament idea where we used resin to encase sea shells collected with our girls as well as some other special artifacts from our lives.

Oh. And, of course, for our second crafty gift: fabric paint.

Hypervigilant as the manager of the Mosiman sweatshop, Brad watched as I cranked out custom-made shirts over the course of three days. "This is SO much easier than buying gifts," Brad admitted as I bemoaned every little imperfection.

Finally finished, I could stop focusing on my own frustration long enough to feel bad about what I had done to my daughters. This was a nightmare. Crafty Christmas was a catastrophe. It wasn't simple. It wasn't stream-lined. What we might have saved in money had cost us in time and frustration (as well as physical and emotional injury).

Christmas arrived.

Sydney and Douglas had put together a wonderfully whimsical calendar of family photographs. Sydney, to let her true feelings about Crafty Christmas be known, exploited my penchant of taking sleepy-time pictures of my precious angels and made that the theme of the gift...kick-starting the year with me sprawled out on a lounge chair at Disney, konked out from heat and exhaustion. Very flattering.

Savannah and Lisa also went with my love of family pictures...magically personalizing the board game "Guess Who?" to include dozens of familiar faces. We played a ruckus round...virtually...that evening. Our version definitely veered from the conventional questions posed in the original game. Instead of "Is the person a girl?" we went with more passive-aggressive tactics such as "Is this person psychologically unstable?" or oddly-specific inquiries such as "Has this person ever kept Twizzlers or Tootsie Rolls in her backpack to keep Mom from giving up while hiking?"

We debriefed after Christmas was over and ultimately decided that, while well-intended, Crafty Christmas was ultimately more trouble than it was worth. Some of us (me and Lisa) still liked the idea of a theme and are brainstorming possible ideas for next year. A color? Travel/Around the world? First letter of name? Gift basket?

Not everyone is quite on board...yet. 

Some people like to wait until the holidays are right upon us before making a plan.

Not us! When it comes to concocting a Christmas gift-giving strategy, we feel that there is Noel time like the present.

 

A Holiday Script with Razor Sharp Wit

 "Do you shave your legs upward, in only one direction," I asked Erin as we watched our friend Tyler, dressed as a train conductor, battle his way heroically across the stage, fighting his way through imaginary, hurricane-forced Arctic winds while dodging an avalanched onslaught of very real cotton snowballs thrown with a school-year's worth of pent-up rage and frustration by behind-the-scenes staff members, "or," I continued, lobbing another snowball at Tyler's head, "do you shave up AND down in one continuous movement?" 

Ignoring the hundreds of screaming elementary students in the audience behind us, Erin paused, her arm raised, fist clenched around another snowball. Before she launched her missile, she stared off into space, considering my question as the Sugar-Plum Fairies tiptoed out on cue to further terrorize Tyler. "I just shave UP," she admitted, suppressing a giggle as our friend Eric leaped by, narrating each movement prior to execution. "I'm leaping," he shouted before vaulting off across the stage. "Leaping!" he'd yell again. Bounce. Bounce. 

"Why do you ask?" she wondered as we watched Dave, gamely trot onto the stage, clad from head to hoof in a reindeer outfit. "According to the manufacturer's directions," I informed her, as Dave lay prone on the floor, rigor-mortised legs rigidly pointing due north, "the razors were ergonomically designed to be pushed down the leg and then pulled up again in a continuous motion." Tyler was now pulling the blind, lame reindeer off the stage using his train car. I realized, in that moment, that Erin and I had inadvertently written a LOT of gratuitous violence and injury in our up-lifting holiday play. "Dave is only temporarily blinded," Erin reassured me when I whispered my concern. But we'd also cast him as an out-of-work, down-on-his-luck, missing person, uh, I mean reindeer, who gets yelled at when he's eventually discovered, when he's not pulling Santa's sleigh, he's cleaning bathrooms, and...at the triumphant end of the play, he's sent home to wash Santa's laundry.

Erin waved off my concern as she quickly researched her razor brand on her phone as Santa arrived on stage to the delight of the screaming students behind us. "By George, you're right!" Erin was heard to exclaim as Tyler balanced pulling his rail car past with his hands juggling the millions of props he needed ("A train conductor needs a whistle and a lantern," we'd insisted, "Plus it will hide the thousands of pages of witty dialog we wrote for you!")! Dave sidled by as Santa ho-ho-ho-ed his way across the stage. "How did those two get this job, anyway?" he asked Tyler, who glared at us before answering. "Who else is going to write and direct these things?" he muttered, before rolling his cart glumly away. 

Erin and I let out sighs of relief as our actors ambled away. No one could EVER know that it is the most fun EVER writing and directing plays that force our friends into uncomfortable and humiliating situations. Alone now, we high-five-ed. "Whew! That was a close shave," Erin grinned. "I wonder," she said with a wink when we were done laughing, "if the manufacturer's technique is meant for other body parts as well." I was busy picking up the littered stage floor at this point and stuffing the cotton orbs back in their holiday box. "I don't think anyone has the snow balls necessary to test it out," I teased. 

Weight for it: Feeling Spencer's "pane" over a broken window

 Obviously...when you find yourself in the midst of an emergency, the first name that pops into your head should be mine...as the person NOT to call should you find yourself in the midst of an emergency.

To be fair, Spencer did not exactly call me...I just happen to be a member of the group chat to whom she directed her Bat Signal. 

Nevertheless...I sprang into action, immediately grabbing a pair of my never-been-used (until now) pink, one-pound-weight dumbbells. I wonder why they're called that?

A little back story:

So...as it's told...the hero of our story was fueling up...nutritionally, energetically & motivationally...at her favorite morning drive-thru. Powering her window down to bravely extend her bare hand to accept the caffeine of the cosmos...the beverage that would bevy her courage, calm her nerves, kick-start her creativity, drown her sorrows, and push-start her patience...Spencer was stymied when the window...in the face of near-negative outdoor numbers...responded to her plea to push up with a resounding "NO!"

Faced (an icy, open-handed frozen slap) with a forty minute drive with a gaping driver's-side window, Spencer made some minute adjustments to her wardrobe (Apparently only her eyes were visible during the torturous journey) and put in a text to the 4th grade team. Oddly enough, it was not the first text that we've received requesting a tarp and some rope.

Little back story concluded:

After receiving Spencer's text, Katriel held one of our infamously-abbreviated, one-syllably-worded phone conversations.

Amy:  Tarp?

Katriel:  Got it.

Amy: Rope?

Katriel: You?

Amy: See ya in a minute.

Tossing duct tape and the weights in my bag, I rushed out the door, driving carefully through snowy conditions, to Katriel's house to pick her up for our long commute. She looked dubiously at the dumbbells. 

Soon enough, we rendez-vous-ed with Spencer. 

Katriel wielded the tarp like a matador's cape. The cavernous hole in Spencer's door was covered in no time. Spencer used the rope to lasso one of the side-view mirrors and the task was almost complete. I stood quietly to the side...watching the show with unmasked admiration. Glancing at me, Katriel shook her head before declaring wistfully, "If only we had something to weigh down the top of the tarp on the roof of Spencer's car." 

Brightening, I scurried off to get my bag,

Soon, my contribution to this little project was added like the cherry to a hot fudge sundae. Or the star to the top of a magnificently-decorated-to-resemble-the-corpse-of-someone-who'd-snitched-on-the mob Christmas tree.

I was just so proud to have been able to pull my weight.

Job done, three figures moved across the icy parking lot to enter the school:  Two trained professionals, competent in all areas and one dumbbell.

Fantasy Football is more of a nightmare

 For me, when one mentions the word "fantasy," football does not immediately spring to mind. And I am certainly NOT a league type of girl...not bowling, not under the sea, and not of their own. 

When it comes to Fantasy Football, I am OUT of my league.

I admired the intent.

My son-in-law...seeking a way to bypass the three thousand miles that separates his wife from her parents...attempting to provide a common thread to link families who live on opposite coasts but now share kids in common...organized a Fantasy Football League for his family and our's. Brad and Savannah, students of statistics, sailed confidently into these strange seas. Wary, Sydney and I strapped on our water-wings and waded nervously into these unfamiliar waters. 

I quickly personalized my and Brad's game icons on the site...giving the very false impression that I was well-versed and comfortable with the platform. 

I wasn't.

And The Draft was looming. Complete with count-down clock.

I received a lot of well-intended advice (spoken in a language I did not understand). WR? White ring? West-side runner? I thought BN was a position. Well...technically it is. A player sits ON a bench. I was told, again and again, to not select a quarterback until later in the draft. 

Sure, sure.

I snagged Josh Allen first thing.

I picked players like I pick ponies for the Kentucky Derby:  Poetic names and personality.

That's how I ended up with George Kittle even though he's been on injured reserve since we started. Great smile. Fun hair. Makes me laugh.

Travis had been snatched up by Sydney's sister-in-law and then, out of nowhere, set adrift. Although the Mosiman household has no personal knowledge of this particular phenomenon, I have heard that (almost 😏) every man experiences a poor performance now and then. I would not hold one or two disappointing moves against my players. Welcome to the team, Travis.

Skattebo. Egbuka. Chubb. 

"Chubb?" Savannah asked.

"I was worried he'd been bullied as a child," I confessed.

I obviously wasn't well-versed in football but I fluently spoke the language of trash-talk. Douglas's brother, Gary, obviously astounded by my picks, offered some gentle commentary on the group chat until he was shut down by our league commissioner. 

Rarely am I put off by some good-humored banter but, boy, I was not ready for the Fantasy Football platform algorithm to go so relentlessly for the jugular. 

"Amy Armchair QB Xtraordinaire languishes in the depths of despair with a 2-5-0 record, clinging to ninth place like a life raft in a sea of mediocrity."

"A little advice for Amy Armchair QB Xtraordinaire: maybe focus on players who can actually score points instead of those who seem to think they're auditioning for a role in a fantasy football horror movie."

I was quickly ejected from my seventh place seat...the gravity of my choices pulling me down. 

Concerned (about me embarrassing the good Mosiman name), Brad and Savannah monitored my line-up constantly and provided unsolicited advice. Annoyed by their pity and (understandable) lack of faith in my abilities, I secretly sought the help of seasoned professionals.

Naively, I did not anticipate their relentless review of every update. 

Savannah:  Mom is refusing to set up her football team.

Brad:  She made a few changes about a half hour ago.

Savannah:  She wants to draft Travis. And get rid of Chubb. We can do better.

For the record...I did NOT want to get rid of Chubb but my consultants were adamant that some adjustments were necessary for my survival. 

So, in spite of my best efforts, my secret was out as my family questioned my making key moves during school hours. Poor Tyler had to miss church for weeks because he didn't want to have to lie in the House of the Lord after Brad threatened that he was going to ask Tyler if he was helping me. Little did my husband know that my other benefactor, Aaron, a three-time Fantasy Football grand champion, was sitting unobtrusively in front of us this Sunday morning, safe from lightning strikes or a hail storm of brimstone and fire, because he was safely off my Brad's hunting radar. 

This has been much too stressful.

At this point, I'd call 5th place a win. And a miracle.

"Not last" would be a blessing.

Not included next year would be the dream.

Please hold the line...your call will be ignored in the order it was received

 Worry always lurks, like an unblinking black spider, in the cob-webbed recesses of my mind. I am always conscious of it but can ignore its presence on occasion. And that's when Guilt, also ever-present, unsheathes its claws, catching me when I've ventured too far from the safety of my den.

I was having dinner with my friends, Allison and Katriel, before we were to attend a performance showcasing the talents of our acting buddy, Spencer. My cell phone alarm, reminding me to call my mother, went off at its usual time:  6 pm. I ignored it because I was in the middle of ordering creme brulee. As three spoons did battle, spearing one another to attain territorial control over the dessert, we could hear, as though from across a vast field, my name being called. "Amy Mosiman! Amy Mosiman!" 

Scanning the restaurant in confusion, our attention finally landed on my phone, housing the incessant shouting of my daughter, Sydney. She'd apparently been privy to our conversation of the last ten minutes until she finally demanded to be included in our social circle. To the best I can figure, when I had hit ignore on the alarm, it must have coincided with Sydney's incoming call. We were delighted for Sydney to join us. The girls demanded  that Sydney verify my story of killing my Kindle and my daughter did not disappoint...launching into a blow-by-blow description of how I tried to exorcise the demons from the device.

It was now nearly a half hour since I had ignored my mother.

Stepping out of the restaurant into the rain, I called her. The phone rang seven times. 

I always count the rings.

Finally, there was a clunky rattle like the phone had been knocked off the table.

The phone had been pulled off the table by its cord.

My heart sank as I could hear my mother crying.

For the record, I cry when my mother cries.

"Mom? Are you okay?"

"No," she gasped, "I fell."

How long had she laid there, alone, scared, helpless...while I ignored her and enjoyed my creme brulee?

Katriel and then, later, my husband, would argue that she very well could've fallen AFTER 6 and, if I had called her as scheduled, she would not have been discovered until bed-check.

But we'll never know, will we?

Those claws are sharp. And dig deep.

I told my mother that I needed to hang up to call the front desk but she begged me not to go. "I'm scared," she cried. I assured her that I would call her back. That help would be coming immediately. And that I loved her.

And I hung up on my mother.

I returned, shaken, to my table.

Allison and Katriel were ready to bound into action but I wanted to wait for word.

Word came.

It had been decided, that, since she was mobile, to wait until the morning to take her for medical treatment.

I hung up and sat there quietly, the spider in my mind, spinning frantically.

Allsion and Katriel had already gathered up our things and swept me up with them, out the door.

In the darkness, on the drive, I cried, most of the way to my mother's.

Katriel quietly pointed out what a blessing it was that we were only 25 minutes away rather than my usual hour and a half.

We arrived to my mother, curled up, lost in my Dad's big chair, groaning. 

We inspected the damage:  Bruised wrist, elbow, and hip.

"We need ice," I said, Katriel immediately disappearing to retrieve some. I made my mom some tea. Hugged her. Held her hands.

We applied the ice compress and sat quietly with my mom. My friend Cathy had made me some cookies that day and I watched as my mom nibbled at one...hating myself for ignoring my mother.

Katriel wondered about the ice on the hour and a half ride home in the dark.

"The facility will not administer ice or pain reliever without a doctor's consent," I told her...fully understanding her shock and confusion at this news. At our elementary school, ice is administered for slivers, sinus infections, and slips of the truth. In our world, ice makes everything better. Had Katriel and I not driven up...my mother, curled up in a little ball in Dad's chair...would have been alone...feeling helpless, embarrassed, frustrated, confused and in pain. This is not a criticism of Mom's facility. I am indebted to many of the staff members who care for my mother. It is an indictment of the healthcare system of America...that leaves its most vulnerable citizens without respect, dignity, or the care they need. 

And do I need to remind you...I ignored my mother. 

As I drove, away from my mother (gasping as the claws dug in again), I was grateful for my friends who knew, immediately, that nothing upstages my mother. Grateful for Spencer, who hurried to my classroom the next morning to ask how Mom was. I thanked God that Mom's injuries were not catastrophic. 

I didn't sleep that night...mind spinning...pulling claws out of my gut. 

I vowed that I would do better.

And then cried...because it would never be enough.

I'm sorry, Mom.

Dressing like "Little House" turned out to be seriously funny: What an oxymoron

I admit it. I have a soft-spot for my friend and colleague, Marissa. That is the ONLY explanation for how I was talked into this year's thematic group Halloween costume. She did it two years ago with Willy Wonka...pleading to be Violet as it would work perfectly with her pregnant belly. I'm a big Roald Dahl fan. Fascinating man. I'm NOT a big Roald Dahl genre-defying book fan. Scary weird. But because I am a big Marissa fan...I strapped on my suspenders, put on my top hat, twirled my cane and gave it a go. Vowing...never again.

But guess who's pregnant again?

With twins.

Sigh.

Cue up The Little House on the Prairie intro because this land wagon is about to set sail.

I won't lie. I really wrestled with the notion that I'd been relegated to humorless home spun from Olsen's
mundane mercantile; isolated to a world of outdoor plumbing and a Roald Dahl-less library. Did Walnut Grove even have a bar? 

We HAD to liven this up a little.

I thought I had the team convinced to cinematically re-create the iconic opening credits scene of the television show. But, suddenly, stubborn as mules, they dug in their prim pioneer heels and refused to film on the day that we were scheduled to meet our new team-mate, Spencer...worried about traumatizing her with our wonky weirdness. Spencer, as it turns out, is even wonky-weirder than us...firmly entrenched in the local theater's guild. Heaven-sent opportunity...lost. And, c'mon! Wouldn't that have made for the most AMAZING first meeting EVER!?!

IMAGINED CONVERSATION

"So, Spencer," asked her husband upon her return, "How did it go?" 

"Oh, okay, I guess," she'd have answered, shrugging. "They tossed me in a prairie dress, handed me a basket, made me skip downhill through a field of flowers and feign falling a thousand times." 

"They sound like terrific people," her husband obviously would have responded. 

But...no. Denied my way...AGAIN.

How on earth could we slip a little spice into this bland porridge of pioneers?

"We've got Nellie!" Marissa squealed, clapping her hands with delight, confident that I would see that this was certain to elevate our game. But a ringlet-ed little witch would not be enough. I was going to have to hitch my wagon to another set of stars.

Wait.

A wagon.

And....aaaaaaa-way, we go!

Everyone now (more or less) appeased, we got down to the business of planning the annual 4th grade, end-of-Halloween parade, dance performance. We select songs that mirror our team theme. At first, I despaired finding songs that the kids would enjoy that matched our "Little House" choice (Oh my gosh..."Our House" by Madness JUST popped into my head! Drat it! Another missed opportunity!) but it came together pretty effortlessly. Sweet Caroline. County Road. 

And Wagon Wheel.

"Do we dare use props?" I gasped.

Oh, yes.

We dare.

What could possibly go wrong? We only needed around 70 hula hoops. And to teach 9-year-olds to use them in perfect unison. And trust 9-year-olds to NOT play with them. No problem.

We'd worry about the inflatable costumes later.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The sun slowly rose the morning of October 31st. Frost lightly blanketed the ground. A precipitous mist baptized the beginning of a day where the  spirits of children were atmospherically high. Adults would take note of the heavy, battle-gun gray clouds and, with jaws clenched, heroically nod in resignation. We avoided active eye contact with one another...not sure which one of our own would fall today. 

My team swiftly donned their modest garb and then met in my room to wrestle me into my outfit.

Katriel bravely guided each of my feet into the legs of my lumber-some oxen costume as it was busy inflating. Allison kneeled primly on the ground to double-tie my laces as I can't see my tootsies on a good day. Team assembled...we were ready!

Belatedly, I worried about my choice of musical transitions...The Blue's Brothers version of "Rawhide." We needed to liven it up some...but how?

So...as nearly seventy costumed 9 year-olds twirled imaginary lassos between each choreographed song, Mrs. Mosiman, dressed as a giant ox, was chased through fields of 4th graders by...Captain America. Makes sense...right?

Turns out that running around the gym in a giant inflatable ox suit, dancing manically in a giant inflatable ox suit, and pulling a wagon around in a parade in a giant inflatable ox suit was almost enough to give this poor girl a cardi-yak arrest! 

Next year, I plan to steer clear of inflatable costumes (and Marissa)!

 

We interrupt this regularly-scheduled football game...

I was awake at 3 am on the morning of the Bills game.

My husband's low voice filled the darkness. "You don't want to go, do you?"

Who...me? The girl who goes fetal in a crowded grocery store? Who needs to be tranquilized before being stuffed into an MRI machine? Who is overly stimulated by bright lights, loud sounds, and sudden movement? Why on earth wouldn't I want to spend Thursday night with 70,000 adrenaline-filled fans at an event scored by pyrotechnics, screaming, chanting, stomping, and the maddening melee of metal bleachers being ripped out of cement by a crazed crowd?  Me? Don't be silly! I couldn't WAIT to go to this pleasant evening of meditative maneuvers as competitive comrades met on a mutual field of respect and sportsmanship. 

It turns out that the only real challenge was navigating the rapid flood of fans streaming in and out of the stadium.  Brad Mosiman steered me with great skill through these murky waters. Before we found our seats, I ducked into the restroom first...attempting to get my act together before I embarrassed myself in front of my 70,000 new friends. I dashed off a quick text to my friend Katriel:  I hate this. Cried in the bathroom. Whining done...I then applied some cold water. Took a deep breath. Game-face on. 

Once I was safely ensconced in my assigned seating area (on a bleacher, smooshed next to 70,000 of my dearest friends), I felt better. I spent some time trying to determine my evacuation route in the case of a catastrophic event but gave up and just resigned myself to my inevitable demise. Tossed off another text to Katriel:  At my seat. Go Bills.

Brad Mosiman and I were located at the end of the field by the touch-down poles ("Goal posts," my husband corrected, gently.). My friend, Allison, is a seasoned Bills fan.
She had me practice accessing my tickets on my cellular device and looked up exactly where I was sitting. "Are they good seats?" I asked. She paused, contemplatively. "It depends. The action will either be directly in front of you...or not." Based on this assessment, I made Brad Mosiman bring binoculars. They came in super-handy during the Half-Time Corgi Races. Other than that, we could see perfectly.

As I finally got my wits about me, I realized the other advantageous part of where we were located. We were framed within the yellow upraised arms of the touch-down poles. Our kids, who had generously gotten these tickets for Brad Mosiman to celebrate his birthday, were home (Savannah and Lisa in Austin with Sydney and Douglas in San Diego) watching the game. I understood the challenge of picking us out among the 70,000 fans all dressed in identical colors but we were literally in a yellow box. 

And...I had a confusing sign of contrasting colors.

My son-in-law, Douglas, is a Miami Dolphins fan. 

I know.

We love him anyway.

I designed my poster for him. My dream was to record fellow Bills fans holding my sign and offering their opinions of Douglas's poor life choices (other than marrying Sydney...his one redemptive quality...that and he is the nicest, most grounded, moral native Californian we have ever encountered) but, obviously, I lacked the social bravado necessary in this environment to pull off that particular maneuver. It was a dolphin...wearing a helmet sporting Douglas's handsome face. The poster, a bright teal and orange, read:  My son-in-law has no porpoise. Real cerebral stuff.

What a waste.

Until I realized the poster actually HAD a purpose.

As a teal and orange-colored red flag.

A waving cursor, pinpointing our exact location, on the screen.

Communication with our kids was frustratingly spotty. Pictures, from our end, were a no-go. We sent a written description of the sign and, with each field goal kicked, I raised our paper pin.

Not only did they find us...they were able to take note of my wardrobe change in the 4th quarter when I slipped on a sweatshirt.

We had a great time. 

I was emotionally moved as both Miami and Bills players knelt to pray before the game. I was amazed that I could feel so personally connected to my kids while lost in a sea of humanity. I was caught up in the mesmerizingly tribal experience where 70,000 people shared a collective pulse. I was humbled as an individual but elevated as one of tens of thousands of protons working together within this NFL nucleus. 

And I learned a lot.

"There hasn't been an interruption yet," I yelled to Brad Mosiman at the beginning of the 4th quarter. He turned my way, confused. "What are you talking about?" I patiently explained this football-related term to him of when the team without the ball interrupts the play of the team with the ball by catching the ball. Brad Mosiman and the fifty people smooshed around us stared at me. "INTERCEPTION," Brad Mosiman yelled back as the stadium suddenly exploded. The ball had just been interrupted. Obviously the Bills knew what I meant.

By the end of the 4th quarter, I was feeling it.

I did not have the endurance necessary to be a true, in-the-trenches,  Bills fan.

My legs and feet ached from standing on concrete. My back hurt from the bleachers. I had strained my "The Bills Make Me Want to Shout" arm.  My ears were ringing. My tummy was empty because there were no walking vendors ("Peanuts! Get yer fresh peanuts !"...ahhh! The simple pleasures of a baseball stadium...so wholesome. More likely to hear "Penis" rather than "Peanuts" shouted at a football game.) and my anxiety kept me rooted to my assigned spot on the bleacher. And it was past my sleepy-time. 

And then...

Mr. Brightside. 

The familiar-to-every-Bills-fan Killers song began and, again, I underwent an out-of-body experience. The entire stadium belted out the lyrics, bouncing to the beat in unison. Destiny was calling and we enthusiastically responded.

I was awake at 2 am, the morning after the Bills game.

My husband's low voice filled the darkness, "Are you glad you went?'

I smiled at my husband as he drove us carefully home.

"I had a ball."

 

Joy Adele

Brad was right (I know. I said it. But it's all right, everyone, he doesn't actually read these blogs): We could never replace Ada. Her time with us...painfully short. Her passing...personally tragic. Another English Springer was out of the question right now. But I was now acutely aware of how quiet our little house has been since we lost Chlo and Juno. So, with Brad's encouragement, I began to earnestly search for a miniature dachshund.

My only conscious criteria was that I didn't want a long-haired dachshund. I wanted a clear distinction from my amazing Chloe, my sweet little soulmate. I scoured the internet...extending my geographical perimeter further and further. I saw pictures that would sap the sugar off a maple. Days and weeks went by...hundreds of pictures were viewed...and then...lightning.

I carefully showed my husband to see if he connected to this image as much as I did. But once burned; thrice learned. Brad Mosiman was treading carefully now. He would not be lured by a pretty face (He learned that lesson almost 40 years ago)...he asked practical questions:  age, price, location. None of these factors were in my favor. While I not-so-secretly obsessed over this little girl's photo album, Brad Mosiman began his own earnest search...showing me hideously ugly discount dachshunds from down-the-road. Okay, obviously there is no such thing as an ugly dachshund but you get the point.

Finally, he consented (We all knew he would). I filled out a complicated application that required a blood
sample, family history dating back five generations, character references from pastors, and a pledge (stamped by a notary) that, if my children and this puppy were dangling from a cliff overhanging a body of water teeming with great white sharks, piranhas, and crocodiles, I would, of course, save the puppy first. Duh. No brainer. 

What turned out to be a tech issue resulted in a week of cricket sounds. 

Huh.

Not meant to be?

But I couldn't let it go. I reached out by another means of communication.

Things moved along pretty quickly after that.

I haven't been in the puppy acquisition business for over fifteen years. I felt like I was in the middle of a spy novel. The specific location of the puppy would not be revealed to us until 12 hours prior to pick-up. We were to bring cash. We were to text our arrival at the end of the driveway until granted permission to enter the property. We were to remain in the vehicle until the owner approached us to verify our identity. 

Should I need a reminder of how much my husband loves me, please refer me back to this particular blog.

So, two states-lines later, I unlocked the briefcase full of bills from my wrist, exchanged it for my tiny chocolate-dapple dachshund puppy before slipping away into the shadows.

As good as my spy skills may be, they are nothing compared to the skills of my daughters.

Brad and I had made it to Pennsylvania when Savannah called the first time...suspicious about this late afternoon "service call."

We were on our way home, still in Ohio, when she called again, certain that something was afoot.

The jig was up. The puppy was microchipped. I was beginning to think maybe my kids had had me chipped as well.

The name discussion was, again, intense.

Ruby? No. Lolly? No.

I considered Adele. My mom's middle name and a little remembrance to our little Ada.

We negotiated a deal very quickly the next morning...sweet baby and I.  A 30:30 equation to satisfy the needs of both parties. Thirty minutes of concentrated snuggle time in exchange for thirty minutes of household chores with her velcro-ed to me. I was being held hostage by a five pound puppy.

I was doing the dishes when I glanced down at our little girl, nestled on the top of my feet, when, emotionally overwhelmed, I burst into tears with the memory of Chlo...my constant companion while standing at the kitchen counter. She would occasionally lay a gentle paw reminder of her presence on my foot if I were chopping something of particular interest to her. 

Concerned, my new friend tilted her head up at me, gentle eyes worried. I rushed to reassure her. "No, no," I told her, "I'm not sad. I'm crying because you bring me so much joy..." and then I was scrambling for the phone to call my husband. "I know her name," I cried.

Psalm 30:5

Weeping may endure for the night, but joy comes in the morning.

(Edited: The Journey to Joy) Farewell, sweet Ada

If you thought I looked bad in the last post...oh baby, you ain't seen nothing yet. 

Two months have passed between the writing of these two blogs. 

Brad and I were delighted with the addition of our little Ada...the life she brought to our home...the spark that her presence brought to our conversations...our common goal and purpose as Brad and I worked, in partnership, to play with and train our little girl.

We had forgotten that puppies are hard work. Ada honed in on bare toes like they were Buffalo wings. Kennel training did not come easily to a puppy newly separated from her siblings. Brad slept several nights on the floor by her crate to ease her fear. 

New to this breed, we discovered the "spring" in English Springer Spaniel and we would laugh each time she pounced during our laps around the field. She stayed close, tripping me up often as we walked. I looked forward to her soft-furred feet pawing at the wood frame of my bed after her morning potty as she would wait to be picked up for some under-the-cover cuddles. 

We'd had her for six days and were completely in love.

Normally, I would have been obnoxiously broadcasting my news on my blog but I had made a commitment to dog-sit for a friend who would not have wanted to inconvenience us given our new arrival so we kept Ada's presence quiet. Which, oddly, saved me some, in retrospect.

Saved me from having to tell people how we, after six days, lost our dear little friend.

Brad was out mowing the lawn. I was in the living room, in the process of blowing up enough balloons to fill the interior of the car we were going to leave at the airport for the kids who were due in the next day for the 4th of July. Suddenly, Ada began crying out from the bathroom. I rushed to her, seeing that she'd wedged herself behind the back of the toilet and the wall. I carefully dislodged her and carried her outside, setting her on the grass. She wobbled a bit then lunged beneath our lilac tree. I pulled her out again but now she was shrieking. I flagged my husband who immediately leaped off the mower to get to me in my panic. He pulled her from my arms, set her down again carefully, and watched with alarm as she lost her balance. He ran for the keys to the van as I bundled her up.

I had known, while in a much-more rational mind, that our local veterinary clinic no longer accepted emergency cases. The reality of this decision did not hit us until we were rushing an animal in dire straits to them and were re-directed to another clinic an hour away with, what we then realized, a dying puppy. In retrospect, I don't believe our traumatic ending would have changed, and I am still a loyal client to our local clinic that has provided kind, professional, and compassionate service to our family for over 40 years. But I won't lie...I would feel a LOT better if we were closer to an emergency care facility that knows our family.

I will spare you the hour-long ride. It did give me perspective later to give grace for the story behind the interior of each vehicle on the road. New driver. Old driver. Fighting couple. Lost job. Bills piling up. Worries about kids...aging parents. Dying puppy.

I will spare you the vet visit. The staff at the clinic were excellent. I rattled off every toxin in and around my house and they set to work addressing a possible poisoning. But Ada did not respond to this treatment. The staff returned and asked for more details. I mentioned the shrieking. I described how she'd stretched out, extending her neck during the drive. Now they were focusing on seizures. Apparently, Idiopathic epilepsy is common to the breed.

But it was too late.

It was a much slower drive home.

We buried our little girl.

It was a terrible, terrible accident but we were consumed with grief and guilt, certain that we'd caused it, searching the house with a fine-toothed comb. 

Brad was done. Now was not our time for a dog.

I was fueled to somehow "fix" this for him, knowing if we didn't act now, we could go another two years in a grief-fueled, canine-less coma. I alerted the breeder to ask if she could provide one of Ada's siblings as a "replacement" (How ridiculous to think that Ada could be "replaced".). She understandably wanted her vet to consult with the clinic and review the paperwork which I immediately arranged. The vet report had included the list of possible toxins that I had hysterically shared when we arrived at the clinic. Ultimately, the breeder blamed us. I was not interested in a monetary refund. Those six days had been worth every cent we'd paid for the privilege of having Ada in our lives, even for that short a time. I'd failed Ada and failed my husband. 

Our house was empty again. Conversations limited. We were so very sad.

Surreptitiously, after a few weeks, I began to research. Brad immediately called me out...he was not at all interested in a Springer at this moment. But...if I wanted to look at a dachshund...

   

(Edited: The Journey to Joy )Overcoming a major hurdle: Welcome, Ada

 Warning: I am not portrayed well in this particular story. Well, to be fair, rarely am I portrayed well in any story so...never mind.

Metaphorically-speaking (as this scenario would never actually occur in my real life), I am unable to see the finish line because I concentrate all of my energy on the next hurdle in front of me. 

I see you are having trouble picturing me using that particular analogy. Hmmm...how about this? I can't even envision reaching the bottom of the potato chip bag because I am so focused on selecting my next perfect salty snack. I love the chips that are folded best.

Much better.

So when my husband began to gently nudge me toward the idea of perhaps beginning the search for a new dog...I balked. I had a play to co-direct...state tests to prepare for...field trips to plan...nervous break-downs to schedule.. I had a ton of hurdles to get over before I could even consider bringing a puppy into my home. Maybe when (A) is done. As soon as (B) is finished...I couldn't possibly tackle that when (C) is right around the corner. 

I wanted to wait until school was over. That would be the perfect time to bring a puppy home.

I can already hear you. Amy, there is never a perfect time for change.

Stop trying to psychoanalyze me.

I know I'm scared. I know I still have a dachshund-shaped hole in my heart. I know I'm too lazy to wrestle my way out of the rut in which I've settled.

And then...Brad Mosiman did a thing.

He'd been wanting (for years) and researching (for months) bird dogs...biding his time as I wrestled with indecision, fear, and denial. Clearly, I wasn't willing to pull the trigger but Brad Mosiman was...with his trusty hunting dog by his side.

He gently told me that he was driving to Pennsylvania to look at a dog.

You can imagine how maturely I handled this news. The picture of serene selflessness. Throwing caution to the wind to embark on this new canine adventure.

When I calmed down enough to again talk to my husband, I asked to see a photo of this animal.

And, here, Brad hesitated.

Brad Mosiman does not hesitate. He calculates. Evaluates. Assesses. He gauges. Surveys. Studies.

He sighed, reluctantly handing me his phone. "Don't get hung up on the name," he told me, "I'm going to change it."

Chloe.

All the air rushed out of my lungs. My stomach plummeted to the floor. Pain pierced my heart as I read the name of my beautiful little dachshund on the screen.

But I also strongly believe that God speaks to me...encourages me...guides me through signs.

And, boy, that was a big one.

I would like to say that the remainder of our evening was filled with joyous conversation as we planned our puppy-filled future together but I was too overwhelmed with emotion so I resorted to my tried-and-true strategy for situations such as these: I made Brad feel like $h!{}. I was angry. Afraid. Selfish. Resentful. So...yeah. Of course I took it out on my husband. Look it up. It's in all the marital manuals. 

"How far away is she?" I asked at one point.

Four hours.

I begrudgingly offered to accompany him on the trip. Obviously, he was thrilled at the prospect. 

I really need to ask more clarifying questions.

It wasn't four hours round trip. It was four hours ONE WAY.

Loads of time for Brad and I to get on the same page regarding this new chapter in our lives.

More opportunities for the Lord to present me with literal...signs.

First...we passed the town of Kendall. Seriously?

Despite the fact that we couldn't keep up with them, Savannah and I had enjoyed watching the outrageous exploits of the Kardashians at the time we had gotten Chlo and had named our new friend after our favorite Calabasas community member. I'd softened our shallow choice by X-ing out the brassy K in favor of the more modest Ch. Kendall, of course, is the second youngest daughter of that famous family.

And, naturally, why wouldn't there be a Juneau in the heart of Pennsylvania?  Not the same spelling as our perpetually-worried, overly-sensitive and incredibly kind Rottweiler but I took note all the same. 

God was carefully guiding me forward...we drove in and out of cell service as we wound through wooded hills and green valleys...weather wavering from mild sun, cloud cover to sheets of rain and thunder. Brad was locked in on our destination...me, on God. Praying for a little puppy whose life was about to change. Praying that she wouldn't be too scared or sad because of this change. That there would be room in my hurt heart for another furry friend. For God to please help me be a supportive partner with Brad as he works to train a four-legged companion with which to hike, hunt, and fish.

We arrived and I chose to remain in the van, not trusting my emotions. I was given the pleasure of watching my husband see his dog, in person, for the first time. I was a front row spectator as he scooped her up to cradle her back in his arms.  He listened attentively to the information that was offered but he only had eyes for her. Brad Mosiman's budgeted smiles were spent lavishly today as he carried our new puppy to the van.

My eyes swam with tears as he set her gently on my lap.

We'd brainstormed possible names on the drive: Ruby, Pigeon, Ada, Pickle, Feleena, Checkers, June, Summer, Snickers...

I thought about faith. Ashamed that I needed more of it. Faith in God. Faith in my husband. Faith in myself. And now, here it was...right in my lap. A little faith.

Welcome, Ada Faith Mosiman for helping me to face that first hurdle that accompanies grief. The trick is not getting over it...it's going around it. And it takes some time. Years even. And sometimes a four hour drive. Both ways.

Invasive maneuvers: Don't be rash when turning down offers of help

This was all my fault. I am 100% to blame for this particular predicament. 

Mistake #1:  I looked a gift horse in the moth. If by "moth," you mean "firefly." And "gift horse" is actually a "gift field."

Our family has enjoyed the use of the back field behind our house for thirty years despite our repeated failures each time we've asked to buy it.  We just love it. Several times a week, you will inevitably hear Brad Mosiman say, "If we owned that land, we'd...[fill in laborious, back-breaking work-plan]." It's like a little park...sometimes Jurassic in nature as we occasionally battle off three-foot snakes and rats as well as invasions of pus-producing plants that tower over and terrorize us with their leafy-lechery. Our neighbor would graciously cut the field with his tractor but I stupidly asked him if he could do it later in the season so I could enjoy "my" field full of fireflies.

Idiot.

I neglected to consider the time and work that goes into attaching machinery onto a tractor and that my neighbor was fitting us in among all the thousands of other things he was doing. Oh no...I needed this favor he was doing me done on my schedule.

So...when the sumac surfaces and the wild parsley pepper "my" field, I have only myself to blame.

And when Brad Mosiman began muttering that maybe we needed to address the problem "ourselves"...well...whose fault was THAT?

Mistake #2: I consulted my husband.

There has to be an easier way (than actually having to deal with the problem myself).

I began networking.

Which of course, involved breakfast with my friend Deb who knows everything.

She miraculously whipped out a glossy pamphlet detailing how a well-meaning government entity would use our gleefully-given tax dollars to eradicate these invasive plants for us.

Problem solved!

I raced home to share the happy news with my beloved.

"You want to report a problem on land that does not belong to us...shining a spotlight on a parcel of property just begging to be used for a stupid solar-panel pathway (See gleefully-given tax-payer dollars; short-term incentivized tax-write-offs that rape the land of its natural beauty and purpose in order to pacify and exploit the worship-at-the-altar of alternative-energy enthusiasts by individuals whose salary is derived, if not from my gleefully-given tax-payer dollars, then from a foreign country not exactly friendly with the good ol' US of A?...oops, sorry...Where did that come from? My thoughts must have been distracted from the consistent hum of the "always-turning" windmill blades that surround our valley brim, driving down (?) our energy bills and making our lives so much better with their reliable clean power.), a parts parking lot, or yet another manure lagoon? No. Ever-hopeful, Brad Mosiman was resolved to address this problem on his (our?) own.

He inspected the field and did some calculations.

"If we (dressed from head-to-toe in oppressively hot, claustrophobic, movement-limiting astronaut suits) cut 40 stalks a day, we'll be done by September," my husband told me excitedly (in July).

This was my fault. It was time to suit-up.

We cut 40. "Well. That wasn't so bad," Brad said, admiring our pile as I gasped for oxygen, bent at the waist, bemoaning my choice of ankle socks, certain that the milky residue from the wild parsley was going to, at any minute, cause painful and unsightly boils to bubble up on my gazelle-like ankles. Brad paused significantly while I caught my breath. "Fine," I said, "Let's do another 40." "Are you sure?" he asked, with feigned concern, pretending that he was willing to stop as agreed. 300 stalks later, Brad declared the field 1/16th complete. 

God took pity when Brad went to fire up the 4-wheeler to haul our filled trailer away. Oh no. The starter went. And it would be a week or so for the parts to arrive. And, oh no, then I would be gone to Austin and San Diego to visit the girls. C'est domage!

Brad Mosiman is a master of the long game.

That's great when it comes to marriage.

That's terrible when it comes to projects.

 So...there we were again...with a working 4-wheeler and a not-wanting-to work wife home from traveling.

Sadly, I wasn't dressed sufficiently so Brad waded into the sumac solo.

I watched as he waged war, intent on raising the Mosiman flag of victory on land that did not belong to us.

He mercilessly and methodically hacked his way through the frightening foliage strangling the field.

Suddenly, as I sipped my cold beverage and snacked on a small bag of chips, Brad's head emerged, like a rural whack-a-mole. "Did you hear that?" he asked, frozen in place. I shook my head. I couldn't hear over the sound of my crunchy chips. Brad then fairly levitated from his militarized gained ground and zipped over to me as a cloud of disgruntled bees rose into the air.  Another act of God, perhaps?

We waited, from a safe distance, for the miraculous menace to settle down. I wondered if I had time to grab another snack.

Brad then waded carefully back in...secretly snipping sumac while I was instructed to stand in surveillance (while I snacked).

Brad self-evacuated the area two more times before declaring the field 1/14th complete.

100% my fault.

 

Making waves with my dad

I stepped out of the Austin airport and got slammed with a high 90° Fahrenheit fist-to-the-face. Fortunately, Savannah drove up quickly and I dove into her nifty Mustang convertible. We raced home so that I could then dive into her welcoming little back-patio pool. It was roughly the size of two cow troughs but, when it is August in Austin, one does not quibble.  I sank gratefully into a sitting hammock, happily accepted a cool beverage, and poked curiously at a passing, fabric-covered sphere as it floated by.  Savannah swatted my hand. "Don't touch that." Confused, I asked, "Why?" Savannah grimaced, "It's a slime-ball." I laughed, delighted. "I thought that was just an insult," I told her, "I had no idea it was an item that served an actual purpose!"

As always, when the Mosiman women are in a pool together, we must implement the Earl F. DeLong method of floating: Flat on our backs, chins jutting out with determination, and toes pointing heavenward. My father was strangely (but fiercely) proud of this maneuver of his and would show it off every time he entered the pool.

I have very conflicting feelings about my father these days.

He loved and protectively cared for my mother throughout their 67 years of marriage. She was always his first priority and he loved her above all things. The final few years of his life, though, my dad hid her deteriorating mental condition from us and failed to take measures to ensure her continued well-being should he not be able. 

And then, suddenly, he wasn't able.

Had we been informed, we might have had the where-with-all to make calm, wise decisions that would have transitioned my poor confused mother more gently into a world without my father. Instead, she was uprooted to an assisted living apartment to live like a rudderless college student. She is lonely. Bored. Despondent. Because of the relative isolation that was a product of living with my father, she lacks the social skills necessary to interact with others outside her small family group. Her eyesight is limited, cutting her off from reading and completing puzzles. Her muscle memory has faded so that working the phone, television, and microwave are baffling mysteries to her.

So, I am angry.

A lot.

Angry at him. Angry at myself for being angry at him. Angry because every time I think about my mother, I am weighed down by the millions of things I could be doing for her to make her life more pleasant but every time I implement any of those things, the effects are short-lived. I fail my mother every day. I feel helpless and frustrated and guilty and afraid. 

And angry.

Savannah apologized for the tiny bit of dirt on the floor of her pool. "Let's make a whirlpool," I suggested. She looked confused and then I remembered that, unlike me, she was not blessed with a backyard pool during her formative years. I suddenly flashed on my father, appearing after my friends and I had spent hours shrieking and splashing in our large, rectangular pool (with the translucent sky-blue fenced-in railing...the two-toned wood paneled station wagon of 1980s recreational water leisure) to spear-head the concluding event:  The whirlpool. He would jump in and lead the charge...his 5 foot 10 inch frame cutting through the water while, in his wake, a group of giggling girls skipped happily behind him. Each pass of the perimeter upped our pace so that we could take one step with one foot and land, like Superheroes, the length of the pool, with the other. Magical. My dad was tireless but we eventually let the current sweep us up until he would shout at us to turn around to battle the amazing whirlpool we had created. It was so much fun.

It was years later that I realized that his actual motive...his intent... was just to clean the pool.

Ahhh...intentions.

Sigh.

Intentions. Where, when I can find the strength to battle the current of anger...the riptide of repressed rage, I can see that my father's intentions were good. His intent was to love, protect, and care for my mom. And for most of their 67 years together, he was successful in his goal. And he also made some mistakes...the ramifications rippling across our family as we scrambled to stay afloat rather than getting sucked out to sea...sunk by the tsunami that he, of course, never intended. 

I can't forgive my father yet because, if I forgive him, then, I would have to also forgive myself. I have to have someone to blame when my mother refuses to eat, or doesn't drink. Someone to point the finger at when her TV goes on the fritz and she sits for hours, alone, in her empty, little apartment. Someone to hold accountable when she falls. When she feels sad. When she says she wants to die. I cannot commit to the shoulder-shrug philosophy of That's just how things are. You're doing your best. 

I'm still that same little girl, skipping along behind her daddy as he creates a whirlpool...only this time I am very aware of the intent. I am just trying to clean things up while keeping my head above water.