Alphabet Slop: Peaches, peas and where is the pudding?

As a mother reluctantly wrestling second-hand furniture out of her rapidly emptying nest, the challenges associated with raising an infant have somewhat faded from my memory. Sandwiching a lunch-date with my friend Sarah in between college errands and delivering a desk to Savannah's new apartment, I arrived at the restaurant first and put the waiting staff on full-alert that Baby William was on his way. "Could we eat outside so that we can just pull up his stroller," I asked, quickly assessing the situation. Delighted to accommodate Will, the hostess ushered me outside to peruse perambulator parking spots. Full sun was obviously out so we wrestled a metal table into the shade. All that was left was to roll out the red carpet.

Sarah and William arrived with proper fanfare. A group of waiters and waitresses gathered around to admire Will while Sarah admired their menu selection. William quickly assigned me an important job and I reveled in my position as CEO of toy retrieval. I withheld judgement concerning the quality of William's play things. Sarah was indignant that I confused Sophie la girafe with a dog toy. Developed in 1961, Sophie la girafe is an example of French infant toy manufacturing. Need I say more. "It's rubber and it squeaks," I said, "my dachshund would love it." Apparently this rubber wonder giraffe is made from the sap of the magical Hevea tree, its construction is a national secret and it costs more than two admission tickets to Cirque du Soleil.

The feeding of William is a painful process; a lesson in meal-time torture. Sarah started him out with peaches which he consumed with great gusto. "You might want to sit back," Sarah warned, "his peas are next." Savannah and I stared at Sarah in horror. She knows that William hates peas but deliberately feeds them to him anyway? If this isn't a clear case of child abuse, I don't know what is. We tried to subtly point out the error of her thinking. "If the theme of this meal is food beginning with the letter P," I remarked, watching William vigorously flail his little head side-to-side like an orca shaking a seal (or a dachshund shaking a rubber giraffe), "then you're missing the most important one...pudding." Sarah frowned and persistently followed Will's moving mouth with the spoon. Savannah gave it a try. "Couldn't you at  least alternate spoonfuls? You know, one spoon of peaches then one of those awful peas." Sarah insisted that would be like lying to Will. Savannah and I exchanged quick glances. What's worse...lying or cramming creamed peas into poor Will? By this point, we felt helpless. What could we do to save baby William?

Turns out William didn't need us at all (except perhaps as witnesses when his mother is eventually brought up on charges of forcible pea distribution on unwilling victims). Adaptation is a remarkable trait. To combat his mother's penchant for peas, Will has developed an allergy of sorts. Each time his little mouth is stuffed full of peas, he inexplicable feels the need to sneeze. Before I knew it, I had creamed peas coating my hair, green freckles spotted my skin and, as it turns out, peas work rather effectively as under-arm antiperspirant. Shocked (and a little disgusted), I looked at Sarah, certain now that she would recognize the error of her ways and alter William's meal plan accordingly. Taking in my pea-covered appearance, Sarah shrugged before heartlessly continuing to shovel that slop into her beautiful baby's mouth. "I warned you," she said.

Wyoming County Fair

A county fair is timeless; an event that inspires nostalgia while setting the stage for countless happy reunions admist spinning carousals, cow stalls, and colorful quilts. This past week, I went to the Wyoming County Fair in Pike, New York three times which is a low number of visits compared to true fair fanatics.  I like to see the fuzzy chickens, squeeze sheep and constantly question why some goats have their ears removed. Apparently the answer is either so horrific or so boring that I always forget the answer to my question and I have to ask it again every year. Attending the fair is a chance to get out of the house while feeling like you're still at home.

 The fair has many distinctly separate personalities. When I went on Tuesday morning to watch my friend Evelyn compete with her horse Jazz, the grounds were quiet, blanketed in a soft misty fog. The mid-way was statue-still, vendors were just beginning to open and the smell of breakfast almost diverted my route to the horse arena. Afternoons are busy; packed with waist-high, laughing children willing to risk the most stomach-churning attractions. Evenings are a hodge-podge of families, leashed pups, packs of teen-agers, seniors, and strollers. Nighttime is deafening with the sound of tractor-pulls, a haze of smoke now clouding the jam-packed arena.

It is particularly entertaining to view the fair through the eyes and excitement of my friend Sarah. She had worked with me at Letchworth Central School for five years until lured back to her city roots. "Chili is a suburb, Amy," she repetitively reminds me. Five years of former sixth graders stampeded down the fairway to jubilantly greet her, pushing me ruthlessly out of the way. While Sarah was busy being uplifted by her horde of adoring fans, I was being grilled by a geezer who habitually casts aspersions on my writing skills in a public forum. I tried to restrain my outrage because he's a pastor and because he looked so darn cute in his little newsboy cap. But I tell ya...I can only be pushed so far before I pop him in the nose!

Having extricated ourselves from these delightful social situations, we then ordered delicious pulled pork paninis from Decisions of Silver Springs. We were horrified by the explicit prize posters adorning the wall of the neighboring pop-a-balloon game so we momentarily planted ourselves next to it crying out, "Look away, Citizens!" Well, ok. That might have just been me. Wandering through the exhibit buildings, we pondered the ribbon distribution criteria associated with submitted baked goods, canned fruits and vegetables as well as preserves. One cannot ponder aloud at a county fair because multiple unsolicited responses will immediately be forthcoming. There's no such thing as a reciprocal comment at Wyoming County Fair. We had a very confusing conversation with Evelyn about her ride results. I blame the noise level of our surroundings but as Evelyn was describing the barrel racing game of "Steak-n-Shake," Sarah and I were both picturing Evie pulling a USDA grade beef steak out of a barrel as she swept by on her horse. Turns out, she meant a stake...aka a stick...aka a pole. Ohhhh....I believe we may have been further distracted because Sarah and I had enjoyed one of the best milkshakes of our lives at a "Steak 'n Shake" in Erie, Pennsylvania. I ordered a chocolate-covered strawberry milkshake...yum! Oh. Evie took second place!

The Thursday night talent show is one of the pinnacles of Pike Fair. It is a surreal event. A stage of sawdust. An audience that includes cows that are either being clipped or milked during the performances. The entertainment roster is a thrill-ride of varying abilities. I tend to be a tad chatty..."A tad!" commented my friend Deb, "You talked all the way through the show!" Now, mind you, I stood in line for a half hour to get that woman a special-ordered fried elephant ear coated with cinnamon-sugar on one side and powdered sugar on the other. You'd think she could be a little more gracious. Who could possibly remain silent as little girls clog energetically to the inappropriately lyric-ed "Ain't No Holla Back, Girl"? Who isn't going to sing along with sister act Shelby and Haley's melding melodies as they harmonized on "Collide"?  We cheered for violinists, hula-hoopers, singers and dancers. During intermission, we admired the cellphone images of our former student, Brandon's lawn tractor, outfitted to resemble "The General Lee." Trying to recall Waylon Jenning's lyrics from "The Dukes of Hazzard," I inadvertently created my own mangled mix-tape:

                                                                Just a good ol' boys, 
                                                            Never meanin' no harm, 
                                                            Beats all you've ever saw,

                                       Been in trouble with the law since the day they was born

                                                    Wasting away again in Margaritaville.

You always leave the Wyoming County Fair wanting more. We weren't able to squeeze in time to ride the mechanical bull. We missed a prime opportunity to try and win a goldfish. Sarah refused to have her picture taken with a toad that can grow to the size of a dinner plate. We did learn how to craft our own plates by gluing printed fabric to Corelle ware. We cursed our luck that we hadn't been able to see the Fair Queen parade and talent show. This year, apparently, was particularly memorable as one of the contestants was outfitted with wings to resemble an appropriately-attired, homespun Victoria Secret's model and one of the talents included a demonstration on tree-climbing. Drat our bad luck! Next year, we may just have to spend more time at the fair. Maybe we could sleep among the livestock like so many kids do. Our sad regret is assuaged by the knowledge that Pike Fair is a reliable friend who will reappear next August, giving us another chance to be reacquainted with all the best that Wyoming County has to offer. 

A case for the Kardahsians

Say what you want about the Kardashians, there's no denying that this family generates a wide spectrum of extreme public reaction. You are either fixated in fascinated disgust or you pretend to adopt a moral high-ground and sneak peeks peripherally. And even if you have managed to fool the world into believing that you are embarrassingly deficient in Kardashian trivia, you will be outed when you are at your most vulnerable. Case in point: my friend Sarah, who lacks the necessary emotional commitment and shallowness of character to consistently watch the show but will selfishly use and discard my years of dedicated research in order to legitimize her social status among her more low-brow buddies. And now that Sarah is pregnant, she has been keeping close tabs on Kim who is fearlessly blazing the motherhood trail ahead of her.

Cellphone conversation dated 6/13 from Sarah:  I can't believe I'm asking this but when is Kim Karsashian due? I will get that big, right? She's huge! No chance I'll look like Princess Kate.

Cellphone conversation dated 6/13 from Amy:  She's due later in June...Armenians tend to poof up a bit but petite Italian girls carry their pregnancies in an adorably cute and symmetrically balanced way. No worries.

Cellphone conversation dated 6/14 from Sarah:  Hmmm. I also saw on the cover of  "People" magazine that Kanye isn't going to be there for the birth. Is he the baby daddy? Are they dating?

Cellphone conversation dated 6/14 from Amy: Oh my goodness...do you reside on Mars? Yes...he's the proud papa and don't you believe the tabloids for a minute...he would NEVER cheat on Kim!

Cellphone conversation dated 6/16 from Amy: Kim had her baby...both mom and daughter are doing fine.

Cellphone conversation dated 6/16 from Sarah:  Did Kanye make it for the birth?

Cellphone conversation dated 6/16 from Amy:  He's a busy guy...I'm sure he did his best...there in spirit, for sure.

Cellphone conversation dated 6/16 from Sarah: OMG

Cellphone conversation dated 6/16 from Amy:  Go to church and think spiritual thoughts...get your mind out of the tabloid trash, you heathen.

Cellphone conversation dated 6/16 from Amy: Update...Kanye WAS there! For the record...I never doubted him.

Cellphone conversation dated 6/16 from Amy:  Let's see if Prince William can say the same.

Cellphone conversation dated 6/16 from Sarah:  Um yes, I think I heard a thread of doubt about Kanye's parenting in that last one. I have full confidence in Prince Will. What did Kim name the baby? Shouldn't you be at church too?

Cellphone conversation dated 6/16 from Amy:  It's been a rough-go on that front...I was completely distracted by someone's ugly poncho last week and am afraid it will make a reappearance plus Savannah and I were busy watching Brad Pitt and Jonah Hill in "Money Ball" (free HBO week-end!). Add in the fact that I am NOT a pastor's wife and I feel that you are the one everyone should be judging regarding our bottom-of-the-barrel Kardashian conversation. Allow me to be the one to throw the first stone.

Cellphone conversation dated 6/21 from Amy:  No lie...Kim's baby's name just released as "North West."

Cellphone conversation dated 6/21 from Sarah:  Hooray! I won't be the worst parent ever!

It is almost impossible to hold a Kardashian-free conversation these days.  A heated discussion erupted at a backyard barbecue last week as Nascar-watching, power-tool using, sports fans debated name possibilities for Kim and Kanye West's next bundle-of-publicity. Suggestions included:

a) Go
b) North by North
c) Due
d) Head
e) Look

Like it or not, the Kardashians have become part of the American family. We are all sudo-godparents to  Mason, Penelope and baby North. None of us questioned Bruce's decision to temporarily move into his own "man-house" until Kris dragged him home. We are all waiting patiently, proud of Scott as he slowly evolves into a mature individual who resists the impulse to stuff big bills into a waiter's mouth. We support Rob's sock venture. We admire their love and loyalty to one another. Wish they'd clean up their language a bit. Their abbreviated dialogue has penetrated our vernacular like an invasive species as we describe dinner as "fab" and call one another "dahl" with great affection. We're strangely glad that they've provided a conversational backdrop for practically any setting:  water-cooler, grocery store, dentist office, dining room. So make the choice: you can act all snootie and self-righteous, looking down your nose upon those familiar with the Kardashian dynasty OR you can voluntarily give up some of those self-important IQ points and wallow a bit with the commoners. It's too easy to sling mud but guess what, you get just as dirty.

Trust me...I can't keep a secret

                        Sarah and Jonathan are having a baby!!!

If you are at all familiar with my blog posts, you don't need to be told that I lack a filter.  I am acutely...painfully aware of my many shortcomings.  I'm not proud of them but I do own them.  I don't sweep them under the carpet.  I don't permit them to slowly decompose in a closet.  As much as possible, while keeping in mind the perimeters of TMI, I am about full disclosure.  "Can you keep a secret?" I am often asked.  "No," comes my automated response, "I am the world's most unreliable secret-keeper."  Do they think I'm kidding?  Because, almost immediately, I am entrusted with a secret that leaves me shivering like a jittery terrier.  Occasionally, I'll make it a full five minutes before I spill the news.  The term "just between you and me" doesn't exist in my world.  For me, "just between you and me" also includes you, me and a reasonably small circle of friends and family, who, fortunately, CAN keep a secret so all is not lost.

                         Sarah and Jonathan are having a baby!!!

My friend, Sarah selfishly shared a secret with me two months ago.  To the detriment of my home and professional life, I have spent the subsequent time completely focused on keeping this news to myself.  Conversations that would have been memorably enhanced by my unfettered input were stilted.  Relationships unraveled as I conscientiously worked to not reveal this interesting information.  Every day, I begged to be released from this binding trust.  "Can I tell?  Please, can I tell?"  Understanding that there was no way that I could hold out much longer, she established a deadline and today was that day:

Sarah and Jonathan are having a baby!!!

Originally, tonight's dinner out was planned as an apology gesture from my so-called friends to make up for nominating me as "Teacher-of-the-Year."   The timing perfectly coincided with Sarah's willingness to share her exciting news...further evidence of what a thoughtless friend she is...usurping my happiness, supplanting my rightful place as heir to all the attention.  To make matters worse, Kelly brought baby Jack outfitted adorably in overalls and Mickey Mouse shoes.  It's hard enough to keep everyone focused on me when they're busy "ooo-ing" and "ahh-ing" over him without the news of impending motherhood also hanging over my head.  "Can he say any words?" Sarah inquired of Kelly as we stood in line for tortellini.  "Oh yes," Kel began before I interrupted her with, "Moo-ing doesn't count."  She punished me for that little outburst by planting Jack's bib-ed body in my lap while he finger-painted my arms with spicy marinara.  

                      Sarah and Jonathan are having a baby!!!

I became increasingly agitated as the evening went by...partially because Jack and I had to clap and yell "Hey!" to two birthday songs from neighboring tables, partially because I was traumatized by the inclusion of raisin bread in an Italian restaurant, but mostly because Sarah was putting off sharing the news that would release me from my secret-keeping prison cell.  Responding to my death glares, she whispered, "I'm nervous. I'm not sure how to tell them."  First of all, know this:  Amy Mosiman does not have a single shy or inhibited bone in her brittle body. This was clearly a gift of which I was going to take full advantage.  "Hey everyone," I said loudly, trying (and failing) to get their attention off of Jack who was involved in the apparently fascinating activity of squashing green beans in his tiny fists.  "Hey!" I yelled, snapping my fingers at Kelly, "what was the purpose of this evening?"  "Oh," she said blinking, momentarily coming out of her baby-watching coma, "we're here for you."   "Yes.  And as such, I think we should take turns saying nice things about me.  Dee, you start."  With much prodding and only an occasional glance at the script I provided, my friends managed to scrape up a few non-insulting, only partially inappropriate comments to share.  My friend Amanda was the only one with the presence of mind to make up some truly heartfelt remarks. Finally it was my turn.  "My favorite thing about me," I announced grandly, "is that I have amazing friends who support me when I'm feeling frustrated or angry, worthless or alone.  I have friends who cheer me on, stand up for me, and stand by me.  I have friends that I love and trust.  I have friends that celebrate my good news and share their own."  I winked at Dee who had overheard part of mine and Sarah's whispered conversation and knew something was up.  "Speaking of good news,,," and then the room erupted in screams of delight and I was at last released from this tortuous truth-keeping trance.  

Did I mention that...

                     Sarah and Jonathan are having a baby!!!

Sharing Sarah's secret at the happiest place in Wyoming County:
The Charcoal Corral

Tractor-driver...flip that horse!

[insert sing-songy voice here:] Like a good neighbor...the Mosimans are there.  We sport a long pet-sitting history and were we put before a House Judiciary Committee, we would, undoubtedly, be indicted.  Pronounced "not guilty" in two separate murder trials, the Mosiman family are nonetheless still called upon by desperate vacationing families to care for their furry, fin-y, feathered and four-legged little friends.  In this particular case, we were asked to again care for our neighbor's horses. Many would consider this request surprising as, not so long ago, an emergency equine surgery occurred during my watch.  Is there a pet version of Münchausen syndrome? 

Any hoo...one of the horses we were responsible for was an older, somewhat arthritic mare named Street.  Our neighbor walked us through the theoretical possibility that, should she lay down on "the wrong side," she may be unable to get back up by herself.  Describing the series of intricate rope tying maneuvers I was to employ in the event that this should, improbably happen, my neighbor assured me that this rarely occurs and is a cinch to rectify.   

You guessed it...Savannah and I arrived yesterday morning to find Street was giving new meaning to NOT getting up on the wrong side of the bed.  Dilemma number one was getting her poor head out from its wedged position beneath the gate.  Problem number two was that her back was braced against the stable wall.  Even a trick roper would have trouble flipping her over with a wall in the way.  As my chief problem-solver was gone for the morning, I called upon my other neighbor, Jerry who quickly used manpower to re-position the power-less horse into a more-maneuverable position.  Dancing around heavy hooves, we tied her legs for round one of our day-long tug-o-horse contest.  

During rest spells, I updated my friend Sarah who had once briefly "helped" during one of our care-taking sessions.  Assigned to hold the gate open, Sarah's main contribution was screaming down the alley as the horses "thundered" toward her.  

Text from Amy:  (accompanied by dark picture) We are spending our morning trying to flip a horse...thus far, unsuccessfully...wearing sandals...poor choice.

Text from Sarah:  Spending a morning working on a house sounds like a poor choice anyway!  Maybe try the sandals as an excuse to leave early? 

Text from Amy:  And what?  Leave the horse to die? Surely even Sarah Sigmon isn't that heartless?

Text from Sarah:  There's a horse?!?

Text from Amy:  We're trying to flip her over so she can get up...didn't you see my sandal-wearing skills of strength? I sent you a picture, for pete's sake!

Text from Sarah:  Hahaha I read that you were flipping a HOUSE.  Close reading is so important!

Text from Amy:  The horse is finally flipped...how do you flip a house?

Text from Sarah:  It means to take an old crappy house, fix it up, and sell it for more.  I figured it was a Master's Hands church project.

Text from Amy:  Oh...completely reasonable hypothesis.

It took all day and the eventual use of a tractor, but Street finally regained her footing.  The clever use of simple machines were enthusiastically discussed and some were utilized over the course of the day.  Pulley system?  No.  Wedge.  Yes.  Treats were dispensed.  Hay flew.  Hooves flew.  Humans flew.  All the while, I was mentally drafting my pet-care-taking resignation letter.  In between pulling splinters out of my hand and horse manure from beneath my fingernails, I admired the determination and genuine concern of the men who did the bulk of the pushing and pulling.  My husband Brad, neighbor Jerry, and our unsuspecting recruit from the barn-next-door, Roger who tirelessly worked to help Street.  They all got clipped by flailing hooves, they all went air-born at least once and they all paused several times to stroke Street's neck, re-adjust her harness to make her more comfortable, and all fed her a buffet of hay, oats and who knew...yummy Karo Syrup.  What a great way to spend a Saturday!

Painful Prom Preparations

Ahhh...the changing of the seasons:  Northern Pike, deer, ground black pepper, prom.  After weeks of preparation, Sydney was off to prom last night.  I'm not a "coordinated colors" type of mom or a "subtle shade of lipstick" sort of mom.  As I'm more of a "white socks with sneakers" mom, planning for prom was a bit challenging for Sydney.  Naturally, it all came together beautifully.  Syd ended up with a shimmery mermaid-y blue gown ("It's green, mother," my seventeen-year-old daughter gently corrected) with toweringly-tall gold glitter shoes.  Even shopping for the accessories was daunting.  My friend Sarah and Sydney plowed through "Charming Charlies" with a singular focus while I trailed along, attached to Sarah by a prom gown leash.  They'd hold coordinated or complementary jewelry up to the material while I became dizzingly distracted by the pretty colors.  I helpfully held up a diamond-studded owl pendant only to be publically ridiculed and dismissed.  I pouted and refused to offer any more opinions.  They later rewarded my behavior with a trip to "Brad's Cookie Nook."  The stop at the shoe store was also tiring.  If the dress is blue, shouldn't the shoes be blue too?  "The dress is green, Mom," Sydney reminded me.  I stood by, confused, as Sarah and Sydney debated the merits of the stratospherically-high silver or gold shoes.  Sarah handed me another cookie while Sydney shot off to purchase her pumps. 

On prom day (or is it "Prom Day?"), Sydney was off doing whatever it is that girls do to get ready for the prom.  Suddenly, I received an urgent text.  A relevant accessory had been forgotten in Sydney's bedroom and I was being called upon to retrieve said item and deliver it to the preparation center.  I was in a quandary   I wanted to be THAT mom but I didn't want to go into THAT room to do it.  Sarah wasn't available to give me a cookie so I quick-consulted Amy-Five-Years-in-the-Future to see what I should do.  The Amy-of-the-Future seemed to think that Amy-of-Today would look like a big ol' jerk if she didn't respond to Syd's prom emergency. 

Crrrrkkkk...I pushed the door open slowly with my big toe until it met with resistence from the three feet of junk on the floor.  I squeezed myself through the crack and gingerly stepped into the darkened room.  Taking a deep breath, I waded forward.  Ouch!  My bare foot was punctured and I took an uneven hop to the side before toppling over into a cesspool of teenage trash.  Successfully procuring Sydney's requested item, I crawled to safety. 

Later that day, during the picture-taking session, I marveled at my beautiful daughter.  How the dress brought out the vivid blue in her eyes.  How I feared her slender ankles were going to snap as she carefully navigated the driveway balancing on shiny stilts.  We took her picture cuddling Chlo and grasping a gosling.  Gosling...not Gosselin.  Baby goose...not "Whatever happened to that wacky reality-tv family with the eight kids?"  As she hauled herself up into the truck and crawled gracefully into the back, I realized that, like me, Sydney was crossing a threshold today.  This was no longer a little girl playing dress-up; draping herself in long beads and boas and tripping along in flimsy plastic heels. This was a young, sophisticated woman elegantly dressed for an evening out. 

I breathlessly followed her responsible texts that night with the eagerness of a zealous Bieber-fan.  I awaited her arrival with excitment.  The young woman would return home from the prom, tired but eager for the next chapter in her life.  We are entitling it:  Grounded:  Clean Your Room.  Oh...I guess I'm THAT mom.

The scene of the crime:  THAT room!

No...that is not the skin of an 80-year-old elephant...that's the
soft, fleshy instep of my now-punctured foot!

Sydney and Chlo