LITMIR.BIZ

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      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

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