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Queen Esther & the Second Graders of Doom
Allie Pleiter
Teaching Sunday school at her brother's church in the Bay area was supposed to help former champion athlete Esther "Essie" Walker understand boys–the better to raise her newborn son as a stellar example of manhood. Fat chance! Enter the eight-year-old male psyche: awful jokes, disrespectful behavior and general mayhem.Essie, the queen of control, finds herself in a brand-new world of chaos.The pressure builds on all fronts–Sunday school class, husband's job, church pageant, aging parents, finances, friends secretly battling illnesses–until Queen Esther has one royal meltdown. God, it seems, has makeover plans for Essie's competitive nature. Her characteristic control is in very short supply as she gains a better understanding of the nature of imperfection, the value of motherhood and the virtues of a messy but connected life.
PRAISE FOR BAD HEIRESS DAY
“Delightful and clever, this first novel is worth reading.”
—Library Journal
“Pleiter’s inspirational debut…reflects the true meaning of faith and family. Characters learn to trust God’s goodness and provision even when things appear hopeless.”
—Romantic Times BOOKclub
“Bad Heiress Day is a heartwarming and soulful book for cold winter nights…. Darcy and the secondary characters are warm and real, and this book will not let you go. This is a top-notch story for all of us, and brings to light some of life’s problems and the surprising answers God can guide us to.”
—Romance Reviews Today
PRAISE FOR ALLIE PLEITER
“With humor, wisdom and lots of practical ideas, Allie encourages us to renew our commitment to the high and holy calling of motherhood.”
—Cheri Keaggy, Christian recording artist, on Becoming a Chief Home Officer
“Whether you’re desiring to learn how to apply your business skills to the business of parenting, or wondering why and how fancy underwear can help your mothering, Allie Pleiter draws you the perfect word pictures.”
—Charlene Baumbich, bestselling author of the Dearest Dorothy series, on Becoming a Chief Home Officer
Queen Esther & the Second Graders of Doom
Allie Pleiter
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To Christopher John Pleiter
My Second Grader of Delight
And
To
Anyone
Anywhere
Who’s ever taught
Anyone under ten years old
And lived
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Some books just come to you. The Doom Room and its burping crashed into my imagination one afternoon and simply refused to leave. Those are the books that are joys to write, because it is like unwrapping a gift of many layers—your efforts are filled with ooohs and aaahs as you discover what it is you’ve been given.
First, thanks should probably go to my own son, CJ, who was in second grade when his imaginary counterparts invaded my life. I must emphatically state that none of the antics portrayed in this book were from CJ’s actual second-grade existence. Some, however, come mighty close. Any mother of any second-grade boy anywhere will attest to the universality of bathroom humor, bug fascination, airborne objects and the ability to start a tussle in seven nanoseconds. Still, son of mine, you remain as joyful as you are jumpy, and much of Esther’s experiences comes from my own journey of motherhood—including Josh’s non-stop teething. It seems like all too soon we’ll be marching those pearly whites to the orthodontist….
The rest of my family, even if not so accurately depicted, shoulder the burden of living with me during the writing process. For that I will forever be grateful.
Rachel Young, my own personal New Jersey shot-put champion, served not only as a sparkle of inspiration, but also my resident expert on the athletic details. Any botching of the details is purely my own fault. Caroline Wolfe assisted me in several of the medical details—how many friends can help you pick out the perfect annoying geriatric female ailment?
I’m continually grateful to the team of professionals that keeps me on the bookshelves. My editor, Krista Stroever, always knows just when to let my wacky sense of humor fly, and when to…ahem…rein it back in. My agent, Karen Solem, continues to be the wisest of counsel in this wackiest of worlds that is publishing. Add those fine experts to the high-octane fuel of mocha lattes and Skinny Cow ice cream bars, fold in one kitchen counter and one laptop computer, and you’ve pretty much got the Allie Pleiter production mechanism.
And, as always, I’m grateful to the God who made me, wackiness and all. Who else but our Lord could create the marvelous surprises that have filled my life and gifted me with such wonderful stories? I am truly, abundantly blessed.
Blessings to all,
Allie Pleiter
Contents
Chapter 1: Of Salt Air and Soy Sauce
Chapter 2: Zacchaeus Was a Wee Little Man…
Chapter 3: Stinky Whale Guts
Chapter 4: How Many is the Norm?
Chapter 5: The Box Marked “Those”
Chapter 6: Play to the Strengths
Chapter 7: And on Some Sunday Afternoons…
Chapter 8: The Downpour of Demands
Chapter 9: Attack of the Ph.D.
Chapter 10: The Myth of Just Watching
Chapter 11: Thou Shalt Never, Ever, Ever!
Chapter 12: Reluctant Coffee to Go
Chapter 13: On the Verge of Pop-icide
Chapter 14: The Family History of Airborne Produce
Chapter 15: Just When You Thought it Was Safe To Go Back in the Kitchen…
Chapter 16: Endless Opportunities for Bad Behavior
Chapter 17: Something Bigger To Think About
Chapter 18: The Thanksgiving That Wasn’t…
Chapter 19: And the Victory Goes to…Whom?
Chapter 20: World War Three and the Base-Level Bailout
Chapter 21: Fighting the Undertow
Chapter 22: Deck the Halls
Chapter 23: Athletic Intuition
Chapter 24: The Problem with Queen Esther’s Realm
Chapter 25: Heroics
Chapter 26: Life’s Major Moments
Chapter 27: The Celebration of Bible Heroes
Discussion Questions
Chapter 1
Of Salt Air and Soy Sauce
Essie burst into the room.
Well, that wasn’t unusual—Essie always burst into rooms. It was the look on her face, though, that made Doug put down his hacksaw. It wasn’t very often he saw his wife in a state of panic.
“Essie?”
She groped for words. It didn’t seem to be about Josh: he was right there, tucked baby-perfect into her elbow and chewing on her knuckle, looking as content as a five-month-old teething baby could. Staying in the church nursery during Sunday school obviously hadn’t done him any bodily harm. The walk home perhaps? Had something happened then?
“Promise me!” she blurted out finally.
Doug stashed the saw in its proper drawer and began walking toward Essie to take Josh. “Promise you what?”
“Promise me Josh will never make bathroom jokes, or think crawling under the sanctuary pews is cool, or try to blow Kool-Aid out his nose because he was dared to, or draw the Apostles having a belching competition on his gospel lesson papers—promise me!”
Doug tucked Josh onto his shoulder, feeling his shirt dampen. His new son seemed to be a constant source of saliva. “Slow down, Essie….”
Which was useless, since Essie had now begun to pace the tiny workshop they’d carved out on the back porch of their San Francisco apartment. “Promise me he’ll never see who can say booger ten times fastest, or bark like a puppy for ten straight minutes while someone’s trying to teach him about forgiveness, and that he will possess the seemingly rare ability to sit still for thirty seconds, and that he won’t turn into one of them!”
Doug wasn’t sure there was a safe response to that. He tried to catch Essie’s hand as she paced the short length of the deck, but she slid out of his grasp. She turned and crossed the length again, tugging at her ponytail. She looked like she had another hundred such laps in her.
“They’re animals,” she said to no one in particular. “They’re little beasts in tiny khaki pants and itty-bitty loafers. They couldn’t have been raised by humans. They’re animals.”
“They’re second-grade boys. That’s pretty close to animals in my book.”
“No.” Essie turned to him, eyeing him like a biology specimen. “These aren’t normal boys. Men who run companies and drive school buses and file tax returns don’t start out like this. Mobsters start out like this, not nice boys.”
“You just had a bad day.”
“You know,” she replied as she rubbed at a marker stain on the cuff of her shirt, “I thought that. Last week. But this week was just the same. They’re lunatics, these little boys. It’s like trying to teach a band of chimpanzees on a sugar high.”
She stopped pacing and leaned her body back against one of the support columns. Strands of curly hair had escaped her ponytail, and she pushed them aside with an annoyed gesture. “I don’t why I ever let Mark-o talk me into this.”
Doug offered Josh a knuckle, wincing as the tiny edge of a new tooth made itself known. “You were excited about this. Essie, you’ve always been great with kids. You’re great with Josh. You were voted Teacher of the Year before we left New Jersey. You can do this.”
She turned her gaze out over the alley, away from him. “No one in the hallowed halls of Pembrook High School ever called me Mrs. Poopy-head.”
“Well, not to your face, maybe…”
“Doug…”
“Okay, okay.” He came up behind her and kissed one shoulder. “So they’re a rough crowd. And they lack certain social skills. That doesn’t make you a bad teacher. From what I remember of second grade, ‘poopy-head’ is a compliment.”
A tiny laugh escaped her lips. “So this is like kindergarten, where if I hit you it means I like you?”
“Not exactly. By second grade the ‘cootie factor’ comes into play. Look, Essie, Mark’s under a lot of pressure from those private-school-types to get things right. He wouldn’t have asked you to teach at his church if he didn’t think you’d do a great job.”
“I bet he’ll get calls today. Mrs. Covington’s gonna pop right out of her Guccis when she sees her son’s ‘Burping Apostle Peter.’ Where do those little minds dream up this stuff?”
“You were expecting them to line up and sing ‘Jesus Loves Me’ in harmony? Don’t you remember second grade?”
She rested her head against the pillar. Josh reached out a chubby hand to grasp at his mother’s curls, now within reach, and tried stuffing one in his mouth. Essie winced at the pull and turned to face them. “I thought I could handle them, Doug.”
“You can. You’re just going to have to work a little harder than you thought to pull it off.”
“I don’t know.”
“I do. The Essie Walker I married can’t be conquered. You could shot-put one of those kids across the room if you had to, and I bet they know it. Perhaps during next week’s lesson you could mention that you are the New Jersey state champion.”
“These boys don’t even respect the laws of gravity. They’re not going to respect the 1993 New Jersey state shot-put title.”
“I don’t know,” said Doug, breathing in the particularly wonderful scent of his wife’s neck. “It goes a long way with me.”
“You,” she said, her voice pitching a bit higher when he kissed her in just the right spot, “don’t count.”
“Joshua and I are insulted at that remark.” Doug pulled away in mock indignation.
“I’ll make it up to you.”
