Chlo

 "We may have a puppy in your budget," the woman had said, leaving us by the truck as she trudged to a little wooden crate located at the far edge of her property. "She's not AKC registered because of the imperfection in her tail. She has a knot," the lady explained as she bent to release the latch on the crate facing away from us. 

Savannah, Sydney, and I watched, stunned, as a little dappled brown comet shot out, racing in a rainbow arc towards us, landing directly at my feet and flipping, stomach-side up, to stare up at us. I hadn't even touched her yet. "Sold," I announced.

That was fourteen years ago.

Chlo.

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

"I trouble-shoot for a living," Brad ground out in frustration, "I fix things. That's what I do." For months, he had adjusted ramps, sleeping areas, and meals to keep our sweet girl comfortable. We no longer cooked for ourselves as we concocted variations of rice, mashed potatoes, chicken, ground turkey, and venison for our little honey. Brad fork-fed and hand-fed her, small pieces, on the bathroom floor. 

She was still Chlo. She moved (slowly) to whatever room we were in. Her eyes followed us with interest and concern. That tail always wagged. But she was so tired. And then, one day, standing became a struggle. Breathing became a battle.

My husband fixes things.  And on those last two days, he fought so hard to fix this.

And while Brad Mosiman fought, I counted...cursing the prose that rose from my bruised soul.

Chlo drew her last breath right before Thanksgiving and it is just now that I pulled the stapled "Trimester 1: Progress Notes" packet from my bag, where, woven among the questions about expanded form, comparisons and double-digit multiplication, I had scribbled my poetic pain in real time. It is smeared, crumpled, and messy. Terrible. In subject-matter AND form.

Her rib-cage rose

a tiny bellows

fueling her fiery spirit.

I prayed for a sigh

~not a moan~

as, like a glacier, she rose

from her blanketed throne.

I matched her breaths to share her air.

Through the rain,

in their lair,

three vultures perched,

and blindly searched,

her scarce terrain 

for signs of life

1

2

3

4

5

6

A cynical smile

that I was counting up.

Not counting down.

Because I could always count on her.

Except commands,

self-taught

She fought

every step of the way.

Cute.

Until now.

Sit.

Come.

Stay.

Please stay.

Brad and I took turns cradling her on our bent knees...stomach-up as we stroked her soft belly fur and soothed her back. We sang to her, thanked her, and thanked God for the gift of her. But, even in the midst of that, poetic fire raged within me:

In fury,

I grabbed a flea

as it attempted 

to escape

in a forest of fur.

Fingers red

I wrenched off its head.

"You will not desecrate the dead or dying."

Though it grows somewhat weaker, like a cell phone signal, I still feel her. I refuse to past tense her...I will not add ~ed to my feelings for my sweet little girl...my spirit animal...my comforter...my friend. How grateful I am to God (and Ted & Liz Wolf for their extraordinary veterinary care) for the time we had with her. 

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

As I held her tightly during her last few breaths, I whispered all the things she would be able to do again in just a couple of minutes..."You will be able to see perfectly. You'll be able to run and jump fearlessly again. You'll be able to hear. You'll be able to eat everything.  Your back won't hurt. Your tail..." I gasped, crying, "No! Please don't change her tail." Her tail made her perfect for us.

And then suddenly, a little dappled brown comet shot out, racing in a rainbow arc, landing directly at His feet, flipping, stomach-side up, to stare up at Him, tail wagging wildly and wiggling happily. Grinning, He stooped to scoop her up, His beard the target of sweet, puppy kisses. Chlo is home.

What a Wonky Way to Celebrate Halloween

 You know me...I'm not one to complain...but Great Scott and Gadzooks! The blame for this brou-ha-ha lay squarely on the soon-to-be-bursting belly of none other than Violet Beauregarde herself, my 4th grade teammate, Marissa. I must profess a minuscule amount of admiration that she beat me to the punch...we had barely had time to put our Elvis wigs in storage (or in Roxanne's case...the bonfire)  last Halloween before she sweetly presented us with her idea.  Unlike me, who bullies, tantrums, and manipulates to get people to reluctantly agree to my plans, all Marissa has to do is bat her big bovine eyes at us and, boom! We're on board Willy Wonka's traumatizing train. 

I won't lie...reading "Charlie
and the Chocolate Factory" in 
character as Willy Wonka
is pretty cool.

4th grade traditionally hosts a Halloween "flash mob" to conclude the annual school costume parade. It has evolved to feature songs based on the group costume of the teachers. "Okay," I mused, "theme music about candy will be easy to find." We've learned to be cautious about lyrics so "Pour Some Sugar on Me" was out. I began my Google journey...or should I say awakening? Maroon 5's "Sugar" was cut after several listenings. I agonized over what seemed like the most obvious choice:  "I Want Candy." It's been featured in cartoons, for goodness sake! In the end, I emerged from the historic rabbit hole with a foot-thumping "No." Turns out, from the 80s on, any song lyric referencing sugar, candy, or anything sweet could be counted on as NOT being children-dancing-in-front-of-an-audience appropriate. I went old-school. The Chordettes, The Archies, The McGuire Sisters, and Sammy Davis Jr helped sneak us past the censures and, for just a bit more fun, "The Gummy Bear Song," was our exit music. 

We worried that our honeys would be bitter about our selections but they threw themselves enthusiastically into the project. The transitions were rapid...arm movements were swift...circles, stirring, swirling, sign language...foot work varied from song-to-song. "Point to the person who is going to screw up the most," I bellowed to eighty-five 4th graders who were practicing in front of the mirrors on the upstairs track. Perfectly in sync and still in step, eighty-five fingers flawlessly pointed at me. "And point to the girl who will STILL keep dancing," I yelled. Their fingers never wavered. "You are the pride of the 4th grade," I boomed (as my co-workers fought to keep straight faces as they mimed rainbows over their heads in a slow, full-body, spin), "You will be representing your class, your grade, your school and your families! Smile! Spin! Frost the cake!" Shoulders weary from the responsibility of representing their class, grade, school, and families, eighty-five 4th graders smiled, spun, and frosted cake. 

Halloween Dance

The dance went off without a hitch. Inflatable costumes add so much more dimension to the experience. Our exit song was designed for a controlled roll-out as, straight-legged and stiff, our performers streamed out of the gym. We didn't factor in our very pregnant, Marissa, positioned in the final line, who determinedly danced during the entire ending.  Fortunately, the only eruption that occurred was a flood of applause from our appreciative audience. 

Halloween aside, 4th grade team had the additional pleasure of co-hosting, with the 1st grade team, the November school assembly also featuring our highlighted character trait of "Responsibility." "I'm having trouble correlating the story with our theme," I admitted. I was beginning to see the book more as an indictment against lazy parenting. But, upon collaboration with our 1st and 4th grade teams, we soon had a creative, child-friendly, viable plan. Oompa Loompas sang specifically-tailored-to-our-school-and-theme video vignettes. My friend, Val, wrestled the Golden Ticket project away from my incompetent hands and turned it into a token that

the kids wanted beyond its prize potential. Katriel, too tired to fight me any more, gave a green light to EVERYTHING. Green screen? Sigh...okay. Songs? Sigh...okay (Then she wrote AND conducted them!). Golden egg? Golden tickets? Magic elevator ride? Fine...fine...sigh, fine. Interactive Wonka Wash? Sigh...oka-...wait...I have to get up at WHAT time to install this contraption? So yeah, poor Katriel crawled slowly across the floor, following a long line of masking tape while Allison and I handed her long strips of white, blue, and purple streamers. Then, early the next morning, before the kids arrived, poor Katriel stood on tippy-toe, balanced precariously, to attach our "Wonka Wash" to the entryway ceiling...essentially setting our students up for failure as we anticipated some of our honeys giving into that irresistible impulse to rip, tear, and destroy so that our pre-taped message about considering consequences would resonate that much more. Unfortunately for us, we didn't anticipate that our school is populated by the most respectful, responsible, safe, and scholarly kids on the planet. Not a single strip of streamer was besmirched. 

November Assembly

So, we survived it. For awhile there, we had our doubts. But, as we learned from our friend Roald Dahl, with whom we have spent an inordinate amount of time, "However small the chance might be of striking lucky, the chance was there." 

SELF-EDIT (Sorry...that was going to be the conclusion but...)

I am not fan of the notion of "luck." When people say, "You're so lucky," rarely is the tone or sentiment positive; rather it is underscored with jealousy or bitterness...implying that your outcome was undeserved. ("Blessed" is a whole OTHER blog). Watching my colleagues agonize, lose sleep, and work tirelessly to produce a meaningful experience for the students had very little to do with "luck."

Let's try some other quotes:

A dream doesn't become reality through magic; it takes sweat, determination, and hard work.~ Colin Powell

Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity. ~Seneca the Younger

Luck? Luck is hard work-and realizing what is opportunity and what isn't. ~Lucille Ball

I find the harder I work, the more luck I seem to have.~(attributed to many)

Still recovering from almost missing my looming deadline folding wedding blankets

I was blessed to attend a wedding recently. They, on the other hand, were not so blessed to have me on hand "to help." My skill set is strictly limited to snacking and making sarcastic remarks. When it was quickly discovered that I couldn't assemble metal arches, weave flower garlands, or drape tulle and twinkly lights across smooth surfaces, I was assigned the important task of rolling wedding blankets. 

The most important rule in rolling wedding blankets is to NOT ask why one must roll wedding blankets in the first place. If you are silly enough to question even the mere existence of wedding blankets, you might be downgraded to fanning out the pretty personalized cupcake napkins. The most important rule in fanning out the personalized cupcake napkins is to NOT point out that people will be wiping their frosted faces on the pretty personalized cupcake napkins so why not buy the 500-pack of economy napkins from Stuff-mart. Should you cross THAT line, you will then be relegated to putting a thousand tablecloth clips on the outdoor patio furniture.

"Okay, explain to me how to do this," I sighed, choosing the least of the wedding preparation evils. After my tutorial, I was exiled to the bedroom so I could "concentrate.""Concentrate," my ass, I was being sequestered from the social activities. "Keep her busy," someone had said, so I was given the adult equivalent of a coloring book.

"Hotdog, hotdog," I chanted, establishing a rhythm, not unlike the work songs of the men driving in the railroad spikes. Having folded the blanket, the long way, twice, I then flicked the fabric over the bed like a whip. Starting at the short end, I'd tightly roll it up, wrestle on a ribbon and then attach the cute card. 

Easy.

Except it wasn't.

I couldn't get the sides to line up perfectly.

Hot dog was an appropriate image as my rolled blankets often resembled an over-microwaved frankfurter flare-up. They looked like an eggroll had exploded. I took a break...maybe I was hungry. The rest of the suite was empty as everyone else had left to visit the downstairs bar. They must have inadvertently forgotten me. I felt sorry for them, knowing that they weren't having any fun without me there.

I grabbed a cheese tray and returned to my duties.

I will spare you the horrors of trying to lasso those little doggies with the elegant ribbon bows. Those of you who have ever risked near-strangulation pulling on shape-wear will automatically empathize with my trials. 

Two hours later, I was done. The arch-way installers did not give me the accolades I felt I deserved. The woman weaving three room's length of flower garland couldn't  pause for even a baby breath's of a second to applaud...instead, pursing her tulips together in disapproval. I was then handed the pretty personalized cupcake napkins and sent to the kitchen.

Imagine my FURY, later at the party, when no-one was taking a blanket.

I prowled the patio until I spotted a sophisticated Romanian smoker curled elegantly on a chaise lounge.  "Can I get you a blanket?" I offered. Shaking her head "no," she smiled at me and pulled her fashionable shawl tighter around her. Infuriated, I stalked back to my pyramid of plush blankets and grabbed one for her. After a brief struggle, I succeeded in wrapping her up. I spent the remainder of the evening like a matador, chasing blanket-less bull-headed people around the party.

I wonder why I don't get invited to more weddings...I really do.

Brad Mosiman can track falcons (and cell phones) on a cloudy day...

 

 It was time for that most pleasurable of Fall activities...Leaf raking. My love of manual labor had me scrambling about the house, attending to the most miniscule of normally-ignored chores. The veil of dust that provides an atmospherically ghostly-glow to our television watching was methodically eradicated from the screen. A toothpick snowplowed a year's worth (or more) of fallen flakes from the rubber road that seals our freezer door. Time was also spent researching the term for the rubber road that seals the freezer door. Fun fact:  It's called a gasket.

After a thorough inventory and categorization of our extensive VHS and DVD collection, I sighed and realized that I couldn't put it off anymore. 

It was time "to help" Brad.

After over three decades of marriage, I continue to be perplexed by his delight and appreciation when I VERY reluctantly join him in laborious, mundane, cumbersome, tiring tasks. 

Fortunately, he'd completed the gathering of leaves into systematic piles part of the project so that "all" that was left to do was the picking up and transporting. "We should be done in a little over an hour," my husband cheerfully predicted. Sigh.

He handed me our tools...two snow shovels, the "good" rake, and the bottom of the broken rake that we've (he's) been using like a broom's dust pan for the last six years. 

Brad works with methodical precision...using the shovel and rake bottom like salad tongs to effortlessly scoop up giant helpings of leaf lettuce into our little trailer. Given the "good tools," I liberally sprinkle leaves all over our lawn like cinnamon sugar on toast. Without a word of complaint, Brad cheerfully rakes then back together before hopping on the 4-wheeler to move the trailer to another pile...using fractions to inspire (frustrate) me. "Three-eighths of the leaves fit into the trailer," he shared (like I cared). "How many trips will we need to take to finish the lawn?" What sort of idiotic word problem was that? Bad enough that I'm doing lawn work (sort of). Now he's quizzing me with fraction-based math word problems?

On our second trip to dump our leaves, our little dog decided to do a little adventuring. 

"Make sure to keep a close eye on her," Brad unnecessarily warned, as though talking to an idiot, "If she wanders into the underbrush, there's a good chance we're not getting her back." I rolled my eyes, dismissing him entirely. My stars...SO-OO controlling. 

I followed behind my slowly meandering mutt, scrolling through the litany of pictures I'd taken of Chlo and I "helping" Brad rake. I glanced up in time to see the tip of her tail disappearing into the tangle of vines, weeds, and thorns. Pocketing my phone quickly, I lunged at her but it was too late. I peered into the shadows to see her making her way down the decline, nose to the ground. I screamed her name but her 14-year-old ears had long lost their ability to hear and, prior to that, she had selective hearing anyway. I dove into the fray. With Johnny Horton's song echoing in my mind, I desperately clawed my way through the dense underbrush..."And she crawled through the briars and she crawled through the brambles and she crawled through the bushes where only a wiener dog could roam..."...The vines ensnared me, keeping me from Chlo who, I was certain, was soon to disappear down a rabbit hole...I reached for a nearby tree to winch my way out, not realizing that it was covered with sharp thorns. Blood running down my palms, face scratched, knees muddy, I propelled myself ever forward...gravity and good luck finally launching and landing me on my little dog. 

Now...UP-hill...through the same mess...only this time, carrying my wayward wiener dog. 

I finally made it. Sigh of relief. Brad Mosiman NEVER need know of this.

I quick reached for my phone...

My phone.

My phone?

Oh no.

I'm sure he would have known from my somewhat disheveled state but, nonetheless, I still had to confess. Dusk drew near...and along with it...condemnation.

Brad Mosiman was NOT as gracious as he could have been.

He tossed down his broken rake and, dare I say, stomped over to the 4-wheeler. I was in no mood to cuddle behind him so I hoofed it back.

"Just give me your phone and I'LL find it," I said petulantly. I already felt stupid and there was NO way that I was going to admit that I should have listened to my husband in the first place. But, like all Mosiman women, I had an unshakable faith in Brad Mosiman's abilities in ALL THINGS but refused to show him the respect that should accompany his intelligence, common sense, logic, hard work, persistence, determination, and all-around grit. The minute I realized I had lost my phone, I knew immediately that Brad Mosiman would find it. The quote from Princess Bride flashed neon in my mind:  "He can track a falcon on a cloudy day, he can certainly find a cell phone." Brad Mosiman has tracked minute blood trails of soon-to-downed deer through swamps IN THE DARK. My cell phone would be a snap...if he or I didn't snap first.

He scoffed at my words.

Scoffed.

"Where was your entry-point?" he snarled.

Seriously?

I can barely find my assigned gate at the airport.

I looked for a thorny tree, dripping with my blood.

In the meantime, Brad dialed my phone and then spun like a compass. "There," he said.

Where?

But he'd disappeared...hot on the scent...following a sound that must have come from a dog whistle because I didn't hear a thing.

He re-emerged immediately, silently handed me my phone, and stomped back up the hill to finish the leaves.

Brad Mosiman loves it when I help.

Oh, what a tangled web we weave...accused of spinning yarns

I wouldn't say I have an over-whelming fear, per se, of spiders. I'm certainly not a big fan and I definitely don't intentionally seek them out. I experience foreboding feelings whenever I walk down the dark hallway of my school...sure that a spider is lurking...dangling from a single thread like a little lint-sized pinata. It happened once...turns out, when called upon, I am the limbo champion of the world. When it comes right down to it...I would say that I have a healthy respect for my arachniadic acquaintances...so long as I can go my way and they go their's.

So of course Sydney and Savannah would move to an area of the country heavily populated by eight-legged friends. In fact, San Diego serves as the tarmac for the annual tarantula migration. It is also home to Black Widow spiders, jumping spiders, orb-weaving spiders, and the venomous brown recluse spider.

During a recent visit, I had tip-toed down to the living room couch in the middle of the night as my sleep schedule refused to tabulate West Coast time. I hadn't yet received my Ted Talk on how to work the remote so I settled for cellular surfing. The house was ghostly quiet when, suddenly, the skin on my arm prickled. Glancing down, I spied a large brown leaf on the wrong type of limb. I stifled a scream and sent that spider flying. He catapulted through the air and landed on Sydney's white, tiled kitchen floor. Stunned from being shot-putted, the spider tried to gather its wits while I realized that I hadn't dramatized his dimensions. He was almost Jurassic in proportion. As we both recovered from the shock of our experiences, we both began to slowly move. His intent was to escape...Mine was to kill. This was a brown recluse spider. ("Are you sure?" Sydney asked later, "Did he have a violin on his back?" "He must have packed it away in his case," I told her, "And he dropped his saxophone during the cannonball launch")...he did not belong indoors. My mama raised me to gently move bugs outdoors but fear transformed me from humane to Hulk.

Obviously, I was barefoot. I searched my surroundings for a tissue and snatched a paper towel. Quivering, I approached my mid-night intruder. My aim must be true, I said to myself, envisioning the spider battling back, shaking out of the shrouds to crawl up over my murderous hand. Oh so gently, I eased my way across the floor and then I pounced...employing a heart-breaking but effectively efficient smush/pinch/snub out like a cigarette method. 

The deed was done.

I sat, unblinking in the darkness, the corpse behind me, enshrined in its trash-tomb. I stared around me, fearing familial reprisal. I held my breath. The house was silent except for the whisper of a heartbeat. Mine? I gasped. His? 

Author's note:  

During the writing of this awful re-telling of an experience that haunts me still, Brad and Sydney have been on speaker phone, LOUDLY debating the actual species identification of my spider. "I think it was a Water Orb Spider," Sydney corrected, despite the fact that she was snoozing peacefully while I was battling for my life and barely listened to my recounting the following morning. "Wow," she'd said, "Is there any coffee?" She and her father researched the YELLOW-legged spider and began to exclaim in horror, "Oh my gosh, it's so big! It's eating a bird!" "Look at this one! It's eating a snake!" I sent them the image I had taken before the conclusion (That I had sent to everyone BEFORE and no one had cared).

Father and daughter then spent an additional thirty minutes trying to prove me wrong. Condemnations included:

"You should have counted the eyes." (Said to me, in disgust)

"I think she may have been exaggerating the size."

"The brown recluse spider is NOT indigenous to San Diego!"

"You should have gotten a better picture," they scolded.

They finally landed on the Wood Louse spider. Nope...never-mind. Now they're on the Chilean Recluse. Where was this interest when I was battling for my life?

Oh great...Savannah just joined the debate.

A pirate's favorite letter is "R;" Mine is "Vee."

A year ago, I was praying for safety.

Six months ago...comfort, solace, peace.

And now...small pockets of joy.

God is good.

EVERYONE, including me, underestimated my mother.  She is a kind, quiet, reserved person...content to stay home, proud of her family, gently able to coax seed-to-sprout, bloom-to-bouquet, magically. And then, suddenly, her world imploded and her very reasons for living...husband and home...were both taken away from her. Her weathered memory was further clouded by crisis, confusion, anxiety, and depression. No one said it out-loud, but we thought about swans and wondered how long she would be willing to swim and soar solo.

Turns out, my mom is the toughest, most resilient person I know.

I live for her laughter.

It has been a journey...a LOT of adjustments and a HUGE learning curve. Smiles were understandably sparse in the beginning but slowly, she began to share them more until they were being sprinkled more regularly during our visits. 

Control is a major facet in everyone's life. And my mother had been stripped of ALL control. In my desperate attempts to "help" her, I often also hurt her by not allowing her to be a part of important decisions pertaining to her life. Those decisions HAD to be made as they were safety-related but, when we were past crisis-mode, I began to look for opportunities to support her independent decision-making...

• I stopped bugging her to go downstairs for dinner. If she wanted to eat Special K with strawberry cereal for supper for the rest of her life...so be it. I could support that. It's about control. 
• She would benefit from a cane or walker but she stubbornly refuses to use them. We provided her with a cane adorned with butterflies and tried to practice with her. The most use that cane has
  gotten was Brad re-enacting the Looney Tunes frog in black tie and tails dancing. Control. AND...the first time I'd heard my mother roar with laughter.
• We were constantly fending off my mother's insistent demands that we take her money when we'd go out to eat. Mistake. Control. Plus, my mother is STILL my mother and wants to maintain her role as a provider. Now, we have to figure in dignity (and creative ways of sneaking her money back to her).

We're still learning:

• 
  My mom is too polite to tell anyone when something is bugging her so I have to work really hard on my intuitive skills. I realized that it startled her if we just showed up, unannounced, at her apartment door. But if I called as we were leaving our house, she would be flustered because she thought we should have arrived to her sooner. So, Brad and I call her from the parking lot, cheerfully proclaiming our presence. If she is having a good day, she's up on her feet because we've given her the time she likes to make sure the apartment is tidy and her hair is combed. We know we'll be there for an hour or so and will be playing cards. If she's having a not-so-great day, she'll be in her chair. We abbreviate our visit. If she's wearing her little bunny slippers instead of sneakers, it's a quick "Hello," re-stock her groceries, make her some tea (if she'll let us) and skedaddle after making sure she's not sick. 
• I want my mother to EAT (She's 86 pounds!). My initial good intentions of bringing her hot food didn't go well as she, understandably, doesn't want to eat if those around her aren't eating too. She's not an animal at the zoo. If we eat with her, then, of course, she'll eat. And bonus:  If I claim I can't eat my portion and ask her to split with me, she's thrilled to be put in the position of helping me.
• My mother's close proximity to a Wegman's has become a real problem for me. At the height of peach season, I "accidentally" wandered through the bakery department as I shopped for Mom's weekly groceries. And there it was. A 3-layer peach cake. No. You are not hearing me. A 3-layer peach cake:  Peach cake layered with peach juice-infused whipped cream, topped with fresh peaches. Oh. My. Goodness. One piece cost the equivalent of a bushel of peaches, the peach cake mix, and a carton of Kool-Whip. Never-you-mind...it was "for my mother." We'd split it.
• It was a beautiful day. "Let's eat it on the veranda," I proposed. We gathered up plates, forks, napkins, and our ridiculously expensive piece of peach cake heaven. We settled in on our chairs, toasted one another with a "clink" of our forks, and took a bite. Oh. My. Goodness. My mother closed her eyes as she chewed and then looked at me and smiled. "This is good."
• Worth every penny.

We're still learning.

• We host repeat conversations with the same energy and enthusiasm of the original conversation.
• We listen empathetically when Mom is frustrated by her puzzle and claims pieces are missing and then casually look for the missing piece(s) on the floor or fix the original framework.
• Every day, when I call Mom, I listen intently for the sound of the TV. Aside from the visits of her family, Mom does not have a lot of daily interaction with others aside from the staff members who deliver her medication. That TV is IMPORTANT. She won't tell us when it goes out on her but we can tell because, after a few days, her verbal acuity disintegrates. 

We're still learning.

• I try to call her at 3:30. Once, I called her at 6:30 and couldn't hear the TV. "Mom, is something wrong with the TV?" I asked. "Oh yeah," she admitted, "It's been out all day." I glanced at Brad who glanced at the clock as he shrugged into his coat. One hour there. Five minutes to fix the TV. One hour back. But we could sleep that night.
• 
  
• We're still learning.

• 
  I noticed Mom's watch was on her side table which was unusual. Then, in casual conversation, Brad unearthed that she hadn't gone down to breakfast. "I was too early," she told him. Breakfast was the only meal that she would go to the resident's dining room for so Brad persisted. "Why were you early?" he asked. "My clock wasn't working," she explained. He glanced at the large, illuminated clock in the living room that very clearly worked. "No," she said, tapping her wrist, "my clock." Oh. We grabbed her watch to have the battery switched. Four days later, during my daily call (again, at 6:30), I asked her what she'd had for breakfast. "I didn't go down," she reported, "My clock is broken so I missed it." Silence. Oh no...silence. "Mom, are you watching TV?" "No," she said, "The TV isn't working." I glanced at Brad who glanced at the clock as he shrugged on his coat. She hadn't eaten breakfast all week. I'm making fewer mistakes...but I'm still making mistakes. I cried.

The tears come far fewer now.

A year ago, I was praying for safety.

Six months ago...comfort, solace, peace.

And now...small pockets of joy.

God is good.

Thank you, God, for this precious time with my mother.

God bless, Vee DeLong...the strongest, most resilient person I know.

Speaking of entryways: Another a-"door"-able story

 What is it with me and doors lately? Obviously, I am CONSTANTLY on the look-out for magical passageways, a la the wardrobe to Narnia or Platform 9 3/4. I always take a second look at intricate sconces or book titles that might double as portal triggers. But thus far, I remain frustrated (but still hopeful).

Apparently, the recent installation of two doors in my home has heightened my obsession for entryways. And suddenly, everywhere I looked...magic. Thanks to my school's construction project, doors are defying logic and...disappearing. 

After calmly and graciously moving out of my beloved Room 24 to make space for the STEAM (STEAM stands for "Screw Tenant-rights: Evict Amy Mosiman) wing that is comprised of two classrooms with its own special exit leading to an outdoor classroom (magical door #1), I finally decided to face my personal trauma head-on to walk past...my past. My heart stopped. My face turned white. With a shaking hand, I reached to grasp the ghost of a door knob that no longer existed. Where two neighboring doors had stood, only one remained. STEAM (Stop Teaching, Erase Amy Mosiman) had somehow, magically, made a door dissolve. Our STEAM instructor, the unflappable Eric, was infuriatingly indifferent to this alteration to our access-ways. 

I, however, was preoccupied with the indecipherable patch-job. While the construction workers enjoyed my summary of Poe's "Cask of Amontillado," they did not feel compelled to alter their handiwork. 

Yup. It was up to me. 

Unfortunately, 4th grade has had a bit of a busy schedule...we were one member down...unless you counted the fact that we were soon to be gaining an extra member thanks to our very pregnant Marissa which meant that soon, we were going to be down another TWO members...we considered installing a revolving door to handle the procession of subs. 4th grade team planned and implemented a baby shower, choreographed  and video-taped the tutorial "moves" (eye roll) of the Halloween Costume Parade finale, will begin wrestling nine-year-olds into dance formations, brainstormed and wrote the outline for the up-coming school-wide assembly to include skits, musical numbers, and special effects, squeaked in a quick flight to the West Coast to purchase paper plates (for the shower), will soon return for another West Coast week-end, found ourselves buried beneath an avalanche of longhouse projects (boasting a LOT of doors), and somehow squeaked in some teaching. 

How hard could it be to build and install a door?

Barring a nervous break-down, I settled for a sticker. 

Once Katriel helped me wrestle it onto the wall, I could breathe again. 

Until...

I encountered the next door disaster. 

I came to an abrupt halt outside my friend Meggan's classroom. There used to be a door across the hall. Where was the door that used to be across the hall? Now, instead of a door...there was an alarmingly clean, from ceiling-to-floor, dry erase board. 

I stormed into Meggan's room to demand answers. 

She admitted that she had had some knowledge of the installation of the dry erase board to replace the empty threshold of the vacated vestibule. I conceded that, in absence of a door, the dry erase board was a suitable adornment across from a math classroom. Meggan admitted that she was having trouble besmirching its sparkling surface. I had no such qualms. Christening untried surfaces is my favorite! I unleashed my inner graffiti artist and skipped away...in search of more doors, of hidden doors, of doors which were doors before...answering the age-old question of "When is a door, not a door?" 

Never. 

Apparently, with the right perspective...ANYTHING can be a door...a physical, mental, or spiritual passageway. My 4th graders can tell you that the Seneca Tribe is known as the "Keepers of the Western Door." A TV can be the window to the world. There's death's door. A foot in the door. As for me, right now, I'm going door to door because the trick is...to never stop looking.