Elisa's Journal

I guess being a Texan has one teensy eensy drawback: ever kid has to go through the (drum roll please) dreaded square dancing thing at school. Yep, they have to hold on to the sweaty palms of a person of the opposite sex--right after watching them pick their nose. They have to memorize moves and twirls and turns. They have to dress in in cowboy boots so stiff it takes an entire Lumberjack log pulling team to pull them off. They have to wear either last year's cowboy hats that squeexe the top of their heads to a pencil point or an older sibs hat that flops around their head like a banana boat, covering their eyes at the most crucial moves in the dances. But the worst is when you hit fifth grade. All the boys are two feet shorter than the girls and have to stretch their arms to ape sizes to get them over the girls' cowboy hats when they spin them around like tops. And they have to perform the most complex and confusing dance of them all. The monster that is the Neutron Dance. Frankly it looks like a bunch of kids scramble to the middle of the circle only to miraculously appear by their partner's side. It makes the Olympic event, synchronized swimming look like a pat-a-cake contest. My palms get sweaty just thinking about it.Fortunately, when someone makes a mistake, no one (even that kid) has any idea who goofed.

Posted by elisa at 08:02 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

It's official. I've gone off the deep end. Sure I nestle in the comfort of my Tungsten C Palm Pilot so that I won't (god forbid) forget to clip my toenails or have the kids take a bath, but now, I on;y feel okay if I have the day's to do list on an index card. I guess it's just so much more satisfying to scratch things out with wild abandon and a maniacal grin on my face that to serene push a few keys to make things go "poof." BTW. I love that word, poof. It's fun to say. Try it. Say poof, poof, poof, poof, poof. You can thank me later. Anyway, before I went out on my usual Wednesday nite date with my husband, I took out the dry erase easel we use for homeschool and wrote out, for each kid, those things they had to do before going to bed. Like "eat dinner." Hmmm. Let's see. If they don't eat, won't their stomachs growl at screeching decibels so that even the neighbors are alerted to their hunger? Next. "Take bath." Uh huh. Yeah. I KNOW they just put check marks in the little box next to that one. When I'm gone, their idea of a bath is probably turning their underwear inside out and spraying cologne all over every square inch of their bodies. There were some other things on the list, too. But when I got home, only the kids who really didn't need to be reminded had checked off everything. The others forget to even look at the board. Shades of their mother? Poor kids.

Posted by elisa at 09:02 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I'm putting my son with learning differences through the Brainskills program and it's amazing how much it's helped in just a couple of weeks! Basically, it's like brain calisthenics that exercise just about anything : logic and reasoning, working memory, short and long term memory, cognitive processing speed, selective attention, divided attention, sustained attention, comprehension, auditory processing and discrimination, visual processing and discrimination, etc. He's already jumped in his reading level and aced his math yesterday. we're talking 100! And he feels smarter--he doesn't feel like a dummy. It's only 12 weeks of working one on one with him and it's fun. We laugh and have a good time continuously. I'm so pleased that I want the whole world to do it!!!!! The best part: there's hope for my last two quivering masses of grey goo that are my brain cells. YAY!!!

Posted by elisa at 08:02 AM | Permalink | Comments (4)

Maybe I'm a morbid person in general, I dunno. But ever since I became a mom, I've been even more fascinated/afraid of death. Not to sick levels, mind you, but I just freak out more when I see that children have died or that a mother has died leaving young children behind. I bring this us not to send you scrambling for your Prozac, but to tell you that I have this ritual every morning of glancing at the photos in the obits. Some are cherubic children. Their faces make my heart ache. Some are older folks who use their high school or military photos because at 103, their faces might belong in the horror column (I can say this without retribution because mine will be there.) Some look like they were pics snapped at a party where everyone, photographer included, were nine sheets to the wind. These are usually blurry and the deceased is usually belly laughing/dancing, amorously hugging a keg. But in all of the photos, they're smiling. Sure that's how we want to remember the people we love, but it always strikes me as a bit surreal. Like they're so happy to be dead. Maybe some of them are. But I think we should all take photos that say "I'm dead and I'm not happy about it." We need to strike a solemn pose and have a morose expression on our faces. Perhaps we can have a fist full of lilies or a R.I.P. tattoo across our foreheads. I dunno. It just seems more appropriate, ya know?

Posted by elisa at 08:02 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

It's official. I've had it with all forms of passive entertainment. Yep, they're all getting a one-way ticket to the attic, lovingly referred to as the depot for all reject possessions that we no longer can stand the site of, no longer need, or no longer want to be reminded of how we flushed perfectly good money down the toilet. My two youngest have a time limit for video games, computers and other things that turn their fingers into scorching speed demons and their brains into mush. But do they set their timers? Do they shut them off when told to? Do they gleefully pull the plug so they can race outside to play with real human beings. Yeah, right. No, I have to pry their white, sweaty little fingers one by one off the controls, wave my hand in front of their faces to see if they notice me, feel for a pulse to see if they're alive, and scrutinize their eyes for some sign that a soul, however feeble, still resides within. I'm usually met with a blank, lifeless stare, followed by a day that sucks until they collapse into their beds in a healing coma. It sucks because they whine that they can't play their video games anymore. It sucks because they are constantly fighting with their siblings and (gulp) parents. It sucks because they can no longer think of any active entertainment options involving living and breathing things or interesting books or the like. So they follow me around like lost puppies begging for me to act as their social director and think of something stimulating to do. It's hard as hell to follow behind Tony Hawk's Underground or Spiro. Dammit the pressure is just too much.

So I am pleased to announce that I am about to heave every controller and Game Cube and Nintendo and Playstation and Game Boy into a giant Hefty Steel Sack and chunking it in the most remote corner of my attic, then I'm locking the door and swallowing the key. YAY. Free at last, baby. Free at last.

Posted by elisa at 08:02 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Is it just me or is it common to the general mom population? I never buy frivolous stuff for myself like my husband does. He collects skis, motorcross stuff, trumpets (weird combo, eh?) and other things that he really enjoys regularly. But I always feel guilty unless what I buy is for the kids or is something I need to run my business, my household or to become a better mom. Seriously folks, I buy the jumbo pack of bikini undies (Hanes My Way) at Target while my friends are buying cool and sexy looking stuff at Victoria's Secret! Of course I've long given up on the sexy part but it would be nice to buy something that I could use to entertain myself beside a paperback book. So I bought myself a Honda Ruckus scooter. Yep. Kick ass looking. Totally useless in my neck of the woods but I can still tour the streets around here in my spare time. Uh oh. What spare time? Holy crap, what have I done!!!??? Anyone wanna buy a new scooter? Just kidding. I'm keeping the sucker and joining the Hell's Angels. I'm sure they'll be foaming at the mouth to be seen with the likes of me--48 year old mom on a step through scooter that red lines at 30 mph. Hmmm. Maybe they'll take me on as a charity case??

Posted by elisa at 07:02 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I feel so sad when immigrants feel the need to hide their roots. Ever ask a middle eastern looking person where they're from only to have them say "Persia?" What, he's wanting us to think he flew over with all the drama and romanticism of Aladdin on his magic flying "Persian" carpet? Um. Okay. Helloooooooo, you're from IRAN silly goose! Be proud of it. What about those from places like Bosnia, Croatia, and parts of the now-splintered-USSR-whose-names-I-can't-remember-since-they-change-almost-daily? You guys don't have to mumble it like you're expecting us to gasp in horror make a crucifix across our chest with our fingers and run for cover. If you're from the Middle East, don't say you're Mediterranean because you're afraid all the blood will run from our face right before we call the Homefront Security Department. And you guys from France. Well. I might forgive you eventually, but I'm sticking to California Merlots for a while longer. Be proud of your roots, mes amis. Who the hell gives a crap if some give you the brush. Just remind them that, in a way, they're immigrants, too (unless their name happens to be Running Horse or Crazy as Shit.) After all, somewhere along the line, they forefathers (and foremothers, dammit) washed up on our shores--maybe riding on the Mayflower, hiking across mountains, swimming across e-coli infested waters while dodging bullets, floating into port on a block of styrofoam or hiding in the bowels of a tanker. Hell, when you compare those who fought death and danger to get here compared to those who never had to jump those hurdles, there's no question who earns more of my respect and admiration. It takes gut to come to a foreign land where you don't know the language or customs, where your clothes invite stares, where you have to shelf your PhD to wait tables for a while, where you have to leave your family behind until you become a citizen. My hats off to you. So when a nosey 48 year old lady with short graying hair, five rowdy kids and a husband who looks like he's wishing the ground would rise up and swallow him asks you where you're from, yell it out with pride!!!

Posted by elisa at 08:02 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

My husband has given up his soul for music. Yes, folks, he reminisced briefly about his trumpet playing days of yore...some time back in the Pleistocene Era, and, though he hadn't played in over 20 years, he bought a new trumpet and started belting them out. Now, normally, that wouldn't be a problem except that I'm hoarse hollering above the themes to various Disney movies to stop him from unsettling the ever tenuous toehold I have on the kids' attention spans during homework time. But now he regrets getting the cheapest trumpet available and is coughing up dough (yes, the dough I had earmarked for Target and Walgreens) for a Bach Stradivarius. I'll have to admit, the themes to Pocahantas and Little Mermaid do sound more tolerable with it, but puleeze. There's only so much I can take of the corny things he plays: The Impossible Dream, Candy man, excerpts from Beauty and the Beast. Lord help us, I'm moving out and leaving no forwarding address if it keeps up much longer. But the last straw: he's been falling down on the job, parenting wise. I had to frantically pull together a bibliography for my second book before eight last night and skip dinner to help the kids with their homework, have them do their chores, etc. I asked him to get the kids to bed whereupon he hollers at the top of his lungs (air pushing past his purple, swollen lips) "KIDS, BEDTIME." Then back to his trumpet. An hour later, the monkeys are still swinging from the trees, so I had to do the whole, "Oops, the wifey is pissed. Better get to it" routine. He did get them to bed, but without the usual fatherly hugs, kisses, bedtime stories, etc. because he had to get back to that trumpet. Eventually, at 10:00 PM, I check on the brood. They're wide awake. Annika asks for a story. I reply, "Didn't Pappa read you one?" Her answer: "He just came in and said 'you donj't want a story do you?' and I told him I wanted Mommy to read it so he said, 'Okay, goodnight.'" These guys. Sometimes I think being a father is something they do only because they know we'll give 'em hell if they don't. Sigh. I guess when his lips start decaying and eventually slough off to the floor it'll get better.

Posted by elisa at 07:02 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Well, I have to admit, I've been slacking on the gym stuff lately. But I gave myself a good tongue lashing (no easy feat, mind you) and started anew this morning in the free weight room. I just can't stand watching the roosters in the room do their little song and dance. You know what I'm talking about if you've been to a fitness club--those guys with muscles that look like they're about to bust through the skin and splatter everyone in the room with blood and muscle fibers; the ones who are so bulked up they walk around like they're wrapped up in a straight jacket and have a corn cob shoved up their ass; the ones that huff and grunt so loud and out of proportion to the weight they're lifting you know they're just trying to get attention. It's like, "Look at me, Disgusting Guy with Exploding Muscles and Corn Cob up the Ass." Don't you just want to go out with me?" Um. No. They're also the one's that like dropping their weights with flare when they've finished a set. Look, no human being drops a weight from a height high enough to cause the fillings to loosen from my teeth unless they're trying to prove a point. In these cases, that point is either "Look! I actually missed my feet this time" or "Jesus Christ, this shit is too heavy. What the hell was I thinking" (Like they're going to admit that one) or "Oops, the corn cob just shifted, hang on while I make a few adjustments" (yuck.) Whatever the point is, it's just fodder for chuckling as far as I'm concerned. Get's my mind off the pain in my quads and the embarrassment of my jiggling cellulite. Um. Is it normal to have cellulite in your eyelids? Hope so. Bye now.

Posted by elisa at 10:02 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Ewww. Dogs are sooo gross. I have three, all of them with varying degrees of grossitude, Zoe, my Weimaraner, winning first place. It's the big slobbery tongue that seem to plant itself on my kids faces, dubs as the rinse cycle for my dishwasher, and drools buckets of foamy yuck whenever she's vicariously enjoying our dinners. Every once in a while she comes in smelling terrible, having rolled in some dog version of a delicacy. But tonight, she outdid herself. Not only did she reek, she was chewing on what looked like some smelly animal. One of my kids determined that the poor victim was a frog (ubiquitous as mosquitos here in Texas). Ugh, it's legs were dangling out of Zoe's mouth. What's worse, the Kermit seemed to be stuck on her canines, so she was gnawing and worrying it to death, even using her paws to try to get it out of her mouth. I was too nauseated to take a closer look, but I was concerned because toads are poisonous (warts notwithstanding). So I called my husband, Rune, who, as our resident hero defending us against grossology, kicks into high gear at a moment's notice when we call him to rid us of cockroaches, puddles of doggie pee and, well, you know. So, reluctantly, he snapped on some latex gloves with all the flare of a neurosurgeon prepping for a conjoined twin separation, and he fished the thing out of her mouth. Dude, the guy actually brought the slimy clump of frog flesh up to his nose to smell it. And he announced, to us all, "Yep, it's a frog." Okay, I try to squint to avoid seeing intimate graphic details, but in a careless lapse, I saw it all: the spotted slimy skin, the threads of muscle tissue fraying underneath it, and eww. I had to go throw up in the nearest sink. My kids were confused by this, of course, exclaiming, "But Mom, you're a doctor," to which I replied: "Yes, but I'm not a frog doctor, and certainly not a strip-of-putrid-frog-flesh doctor." Sooo gross. In the end, we found out it was only a ball of duct tape that had gotten caught on a tooth, but, hey, duct tape is a guy's department too, right? I felt kinda silly throwing up over duct tape, but, well, that episode is but one in the long, long, long, long list of silly things I've done and do and will do. Sweet dreams all.

Posted by elisa at 07:02 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I'm sure the minute you guys read this entry you're all going to run, not walk, to the nearest bookstore to return my book (if you bought it.) You know...Raising Children Who Think for Themselves? Seems I need to write a new one: Raising Mommies Who Think at All. Even A Little Bit. Ya see, I got bored yesterday and I had heard that if you put dry ice in a plastic bottle, then add alittle water, tighten the cap, leave it somewhere and then run, it makes a cool but "harmless" (Ha!) explosion. Naturally, I don't have enough sound in my house anyway, so I decided to try it. In my house. I didn't want to upset the neighbors. Hmmm. So I made a small one after making sure all my kids were in another room, completely safe. Then I covered it with a heavy Igloo cooler and ran like Hell. Well it did explode alright, and turned the cooler into the Space Shuttle taking off for the ionosphere, much to the chagrin of my ceiling. Since, I've been suffering under the admonishing gazes of my kids and sheetrocking in the hole. Just finished sanding and putting the knockdown texture this morning. Needless to say, my husband, Officer Safety, wasn't too pleased. But as I see it, more mistakes, more materials for my books.

Posted by elisa at 07:02 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

We have this 11 year old Weimaraner named Zoe that is about the stinkiest dog alive. She makes my kids seem like they just hatched out of a rose garden. No matter what we shampoo her with, how often we bathe her, or how many prayers we utter to the God of Olfactory Benevolence, she still smells like a mix between manure, bad breath, wet dog and 7 day old road kill after a mere 24 hours. So yesterday i decided to use the Green Mean Machine on her. Mind you, I didn't see anything in the owners manual about using this on non-carpet material, certainly not animal fur, but desperate times call for desperate measures. It took longer than her usual bath, but since my kids didn't warm up to my alternative idea: giving her a 5 second blast from the fire hose, it was worth it. She didn't like the noise, but he eventually got use to it. From time to time, I'd daydream about how surreal it all was. I mean, what the hell would aliens from another planet (much less Earthlings) think if they saw me squirting and sucking so vigorously? My pants were punctuated by my chuckles as well as Zoe's huffs, but ever since, I've been burying my nose in her fur and whiffing contentedly. Of course that doesn't bring a picture of sanity to mind for onlookers either, but then, sanity was never my virtue. That said, go steam clean your pets. Uhh. Maybe you should skip the hamster for now.

Posted by elisa at 08:02 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Okay, so doing damage to my own hair wasn't enough (although I was beside myself with joy to discover, on awakening, that what's left of it wasn't scattered on my pillow like the ashes of a beloved over a flowerbed.) I took a pair of scissors and one of those groomer thingies to Lukas's head. His hair is so curly, he was looking like a member of the Mod Squad. But then, I'm really dating myself with that one. So I put on a #3 and went to it wiht all the enthusiasm of a waif in a candy store. Looked pretty good, but I couldn't stop. i had to use the pair of scissors to snip off what i thought were strays, but nooooo, they were actually an important part of his do. Hairs clinging for dear life to his white little scalp. Ooops. Fortunately, the bald spots are more toward the back of his head so maybe he won't notice. Annika, his little sister, picked up on it right away and would have squealed had I not threatened her within an inch of her life in the nick of time. Last time this happened (hmm, come to think of it, I think that was the last time I cut his hair) his rat fink schoolmates pointed out every bald spot. Stool pigeons. But maybe I'll get off scot free this time. Pray for me, people. Pray really really really hard.

Posted by elisa at 06:02 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Well, I did it again. Some people itch to move, go on vacation, or just get out of the house (of course I'm one of those people) but others have the hair equivalent of "cabin fever." Yep, I'm one of those two. Throughout my teens, I dyed my hair all sorts of colors, sometimes coming out with unintentional oranges and blues. Now, I color my hair to cover up the gray--not for my sake, though--unless you count trying to avoid my kids' protests to cover it up so I won't look so old. It scares them...makes them think I have one foot in the grave, i guess. As if covering the gray actually does take a decade or so off my age--ha! I wish. Let me just tell you...I'd like to have the patent on that one. Anyway, moving on. Yesterday I got so sick of my naturally curly hair that I tried a new straightening product. Mind you I have curly hair that has a mind of its own--frizzy in some spots, straight in some, and various degrees of curl in others. Why i live in Houston, Bad Hair Day Capital of the World, is beyond me, cuz I spend half the time as a dead ringer for Don King. Unfortunately, I'm not happy with the grass on the other side of the fence. My hair, which is cut pretty short, is so stick straight, it looks like I've been through either chemo, a paper shredder, or Auschwitz. I can't do anything with it--except wait untill the curls grow back. What, you ask, does this have to do with parenting? There's a deep message in it all: you can't railroad kids into being someone else, because they won't pull it off well and they'll hate you forever. Ya can't straighten the curly ones, curl the straight ones or change their color. Just be haappy with who they are and they'll find their own identity--one they can be happy with too. Might have to go through a few Bad hair Days, but it'll work out in the end. (Actually, when I started writing this, i just wanted to gripe and whine but what can I saay, oppportunity knocked.

One more thing--I found out that Dr. Bernie Siegel of Life, Love and Miracles fame has written a foreword for my book, Hearing is Believing! Isn't that great?! I told my kids and they have no idea who the heck he is. I even told my mom and she's never heard of him. Talk about letting the wind out of your sails! Geez! Anyone out there heard of the guy??

Also, I'm going to start Erik on the P.A.C.E. cognitive training program. Have you guys heard of or had experience with this?? I'll keep ya posted.

Posted by elisa at 10:02 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Well, I did it again. Some people itch to move, go on vacation, or just get out of the house (of course I'm one of those people) but others have the hair equivalent of "cabin fever." Yep, I'm one of those two. Throughout my teens, I dyed my hair all sorts of colors, sometimes coming out with unintentional oranges and blues. Now, I color my hair to cover up the gray--not for my sake, though--unless you count trying to avoid my kids' protests to cover it up so I won't look so old. It scares them...makes them think I have one foot in the grave, i guess. As if covering the gray actually does take a decade or so off my age--ha! I wish. Let me just tell you...I'd like to have the patent on that one. Anyway, moving on. Yesterday I got so sick of my naturally curly hair that I tried a new straightening product. Mind you I have curly hair that has a mind of its own--frizzy in some spots, straight in some, and various degrees of curl in others. Why i live in Houston, Bad Hair Day Capital of the World, is beyond me, cuz I spend half the time as a dead ringer for Don King. Unfortunately, I'm not happy with the grass on the other side of the fence. My hair, which is cut pretty short, is so stick straight, it looks like I've been through either chemo, a paper shredder, or Auschwitz. I can't do anything with it--except wait untill the curls grow back. What, you ask, does this have to do with parenting? There's a deep message in it all: you can't railroad kids into being someone else, because they won't pull it off well and they'll hate you forever. Ya can't straighten the curly ones, curl the straight ones or change their color. Just be haappy with who they are and they'll find their own identity--one they can be happy with too. Might have to go through a few Bad hair Days, but it'll work out in the end. (Actually, when I started writing this, i just wanted to gripe and whine but what can I saay, oppportunity knocked.

One more thing--I found out that Dr. Bernie Siegel of Life, Love and Miracles fame has written a foreword for my book, Hearing is Believing! Isn't that great?! I told my kids and they have no idea who the heck he is. I even told my mom and she's never heard of him. Talk about letting the wind out of your sails! Geez! Anyone out there heard of the guy??

Also, I'm going to start Erik on the P.A.C.E. cognitive training program. Have you guys heard of or had experience with this?? I'll keep ya posted.

Posted by elisa at 07:02 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Do you ever get the feeling that your IQ is in a runaway free fall, plummeting toward moronic levels with all the speed of a meteorite? If you answered no, you're either lying (you beast) or I have every reason to hate the very ground you walk on. No rose petals tossed in front of your feet, lady. Okay, the thing goes beyond just forgetfulness. It's about trying to put both earrings in the same hole--for several minutes, no less. It's about having to run through the first syllable of every kid before settling on the right one. All my kids think they're named "KristErLuAnMi." Hmm. Kinda catchy. A few months back, I remember trying to get ready to leave one of my kid's birthday parties at Benihanas (before the camera crew from "Cops" comes to film the event) and the last thing on my "get ready" list was to put my shoes back on so they can finish torturing (with wild abandon) my abused 48 year old feet. And no, I wasn't trying to put the right on the left or put both shoes on the same foot (that's a Blog entry for another day.)I had my left shoe on and was trying desperately to put on the right one, but it wouldn't cooperate. At first I thought I was trying to wiggle it on backwards, but that proved wrong. While I was about to come to the conclusion that a corn the size of Reliant Stadium sprang up within the hour, my toes finally found there place. After hobbling a few feet forward, I realized my mistake. I had just put on my video camera--slipping my foot through the handle. Boy did I get some looks from the crowd. Talk about weird. I'm only hoping some thought it was the latest Prada fashion but I don't hold out much hope. Oh well.

Posted by elisa at 10:02 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)