Elisa's Journal

Everyone knows kids can be somewhat irritating at times. God knows my kids are the quintessential pests engineered to drive as many adults mad as they can in an 18-year period. An every sane human being expresses that irritation; that’s normal. But one of Lukas’s teachers crossed the line this week. Right after the holidays, Lukas forgot some of the rules in her class (he has my brain) one of which was to right answers on a separate sheet of paper rather than on the workbook page. She scolded him, of course, but then she went on to say (and I kid you not) “If Lukas strangled someone and got arrested, that’s be good, but if someone strangled Lukas and got arrested, that’s be a waste.” Hmmm. Pretty juvenile and pretty harsh. Holy crap, it’s like saying “You’re better off dead,” or “Your life isn’t worth anything.” I asked him if he wanted me to intervene or if he’d rather handle it himself and he chose the latter. I said that was fine and went over some appropriate, respectful ways of asserting yourself to a teacher or another adult. This naturally irritated him because many of the choices were—in his words—prissy. But that is my job (to irritate children) and I’m proud to say I do it quite well. I’m waiting to hear about a promotion any day now. So later that evening, I recount the whole saga to Rune who completely comes unglued. He demands that one of us report her immediately to the authorities—if I didn’t, he would. I therefore promised to take care of it as soon as the school opened the next day. I know with great certainty that if I had not, he would have, with a flurry of fingers pushing touch tone buttons, notified the FBI, CIA, Sheriff’s Department, Hedwig Village Police, the school superintendent, the Better Business Bureau, the S.W.A.T. team, Consumer’s Report, Marvin Zindler, Fox News, the national PTA, and, well, you get the picture. So I asked the grade level principal to investigate Lukas’s claims and report back to me. Lukas called me from school sick that day. He’s never sick. Needless to say, I was just a smidge suspicious and told him to go to lunch and come back to the nurse’s office and call me if he was still sick. He did. I told him to pick up his homework from the remaining classes and –a guess what—drum roll please –one of them was that witch of a teacher’s! Big surprise. When I came to get him, he had gathered up all homework assignments except for hers, insisting that he was certain there would be no homework. We’ll see if he lasts all seven periods today. Anyone wanna place bets? Now that you know the story, let’s take a little poll: Should we institute capital punishment for teacher cruelty? Circle answer: Yes or Yes. Should someone cram a thick role of workbook pages up that teacher’s ass? Circle answer: Yes or Yes. Should she be arrested and then strangled? Circle answer: Yes or Yes. You be the judge.

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

I watch DVDs every time on get on my treadmill, basically to drown out the sound of my own wheezing and panting and to get my mind off the frenetic jiggling of the cellulite on my thighs. The other week, I watched Coach Carter and had a parental epiphany. If pushups and suicides (a kind of exercise, don't panic) can tame the beast in a team of basketball players with an average high of 7 ' 8", maybe, just maybe it can make a dent in my own kids' misbehavior. So I decided to have them do a certain number of pushups every time they misbehave--when they whine to get their way, when they talk back in disrespect, when they don't do what they're asked right away, etc. It works out great because you can do it right away--no chance of forgetting to deliver the punishment which I'm notorious for. Plus, it's over with quickly. No prolonged groundings. These are so progressively lengthened with each additional transgression that they become meaningless. Not only that, it's healthful. By the end of the year, my kids will be so buff (some more than others) they'll all become spokespersons for a national athletic club chain. And when they're sore the next few days, what'll you think they'll be reminded of? Hmmm. I wonder. So far it's been going well. They're behavior has improved and their biceps have transformed from strands of overcooked spaghetti to 10 pound polish sausages. Gawd, I'm hungry now.

Posted by elisa at 09:21 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

My youngest, Annika, is 11 going on 30. She's like a pygmy adult the way she carries herself, the things she (unfortunately) knows and the fact that she no longer needs a mom. Until recently, I think she was convinced that mom's are fellow boarders living under the same roof. But the other day, it was clear to me and her both that she's not ready to move into her own apartment and live among rock stars. Without my knowing, she started to cut a block of soap from a soap making kit and cut her finger. I heard a scream and ran to meet her halfway. Her hand was covered with blood (dripping steadily on my nicest area rug) so I did a quick check, guided her back to the blood proof tiled area, and put pressure until the gushing quelled. She's sobbing so hard, you'd think her arm had just been devoured by a Great White. Actually, as I glance around the kitchen I see blood spatters everywhere: the cabinets, leather chairs, floor, walls. It looked like a Texas Chainsaw Massacre redux, seriously. I found out later that those spatters were not due to a large bore artery being severed. She just shook her hand wildly as soon as it happened. The purpose of this still eludes me. All I know is that if we ever sell the house, they better not check the place with Luminal or the new owners will have nightmares for years. It took some time to get the bleeding to stop, and during that time, Annika was in the throes of panic. She was so scared that the damage was severe. She was pale and clammy. She started to throw up between gulping sobs. She was shaking all over. I held her in my lap, grateful for the time to snuggle, then looked at the wound with great anticipation. The cut was less than a centimeter long and very shallow--it must have just hit the right place for a blood fest to happen. Anyway, Dr. Mommy cleaned and Steri-Stripped it and kissed and blew and made it all better. So I guess I have some grand purpose in her life after all. At least for the rest of the week.

Posted by elisa at 08:54 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Last week we sure did have some excitement. You know, more than the usual exhilarating experiences like your kids getting up on your second wakeup call, not the fifth or finding everything on your grocery list or having no bills in your stack of mail. While I was picking up my middle schooler, I noticed a bunch of news helicopters circling overhead. There were police dogs on the ground, a swat team waiting for the signal to swat or whatever it is that they do, and police cars crawling around like ants at a Starbucks. Of course my first thought was "Crap, what did he do now," but a call to the city office quelled my anxiety. Apparently an armed robber ditched his car in the area after a high-speed pursuit by the HPD. The school was in lockdown and we were told to remain in our cars in case of flying bullets. I had Annika do her homework in the front seat in a fully reclined position to reduce her exposure. Although I thought I was being pretty thoughtful, Annika didn't. Something about doing homework in the middle of a war zone, missing the excitement, blah, blah, blah, whatever. After an hour I gave up and went home because they weren't finding this dufus and the school was going to be locked down for what seemed like an eternity. Moments after I got home, Lukas called to be picked up. On my way, I spent some time thinking about how grateful I was that he was okay (and not in trouble) but I have to confess, the bulk of my cognitive rumblings were "God, I hope he did some of his homework." If you knew what I had to go through to get him to do it everyday, you wouldn't sit there thinking I'm a coldhearted bitch of a mom in desperate need of industrial strength Prozac. Actually, the last part is true, but that's another story. The thing that irked me most, though, was that there was no story about it in the following morning's Houston Chronicle. Okay, let's see. Swat team. Police dogs. An armed robber (still at large, by the way). Middle school lockdown, Helicopters swarming. What, that's not newsworthy? Do you have to have a death or two to qualify? Does it have to be a story that supports the liberal agenda? Do you have to sleep with your intern, embezzle petty cash, or sell FEMA bucks on eBay to get into print? I thumbed through all the tired and boring stories about Katrina (hey, it's been months, get over it), Iraq insurgents, and other blah blah blah I'm sick and tired of hearing it news. I hate the stinkin liberal press. Despite the fact that I'll miss the crossword puzzles, I'm not renewing my subscription when it comes due. I suggest you all do the same. Save a tree, say no to liberal newspaper.

Posted by elisa at 08:58 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Guys are so predictable. I swear they're cut from the same mold. Maybe their entire engineering, psyche and all, is so simplistic that God was able to streamline the assembly that way. He (or She) could definitely not do that with females. Custom made all the way, sistas! Anyway, I took my 16 year old son to get some routine bloodwork. As we were sitting in the waiting room waiting (duh) for his turn, I nonchalantly asked him if he wanted me to go in with him or wait where I was. He responded with that "are you kidding?" snort and "I don't care. Either way." So I took that as a cue that he's no longer my little baby in need of a maternal hand to grip with knuckle-whitening intensity. I replied, "Okay, I guess I'll stay out here and read the paper." No response. A few minutes later, his name was called. He rose from his chair morosely, then looked at me with a widened expectant stare and that little head jerk that says, "Well, aren't you coming?" I returned with my own confused expression, one that, I'm proud to report, has been honed to perfection due to decades of daily practice. After an awkward pause, he says in an urgent whisper, "Mom, come on!" I guess he's not quite finished with me after all.

Posted by elisa at 10:20 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Just got back from my favorite annual dental checkup which I try to schedule every 4 years whether I need it or not. I take great care to maintain my choppers since these are the only part of my body not likely to betray me in an evil alliance with gravity. At the end of the visit, I made a mental note to encourage every one of my children to enroll in dental school so they can make me a rich, broad-smiled woman in my old age. Of course I have Annika to blame for my dental experience. Sunday, we played dentist together. She ransacked my medical supplies and various unidentifiable tools of torture garnered from Rune's workshop and converted by bathroom to a top notch, one stop shopping dental mall, complete with masseuse. I was alittle nervous when she called my from the "waiting room" as her last patient, Lukas, was under her control for 45 minutes. But as long as I wasn't following one of the dogs, I thought, 'what's the worst that can happen?' Ha! After applying a solar panel-turned xray scanner to my jaw, she announced that I had two holes in my teeth. I thought she was kidding til I looked for myself. So I made an appointment for a second opinion the next day. As you can imagine, this was a great and interminable insult to Annika. Nevertheless, I forged on with my commitment and went to the dentist today. Now about the visit: First of all, they take close up color pictures of every flaw. We're talking 9 x 12 glossies of each messed up tooth for you to lament over. Unlike the old xrays, these have the additional advantage, from the dentist's point of view, of magnifying each restoration-worthy nook and cranny. Mine involved two teeth. One with a hole the size of Rhode Island and the other with a crack that rivals the Grand Canyon. I expected to see a team of archeologists digging for ancient artifacts or at the very least, signs of the elusive Big Foot. Anyway, I'm rambling. So I sign my life and finances away to dam these mighty crevices after adding a memo to my Palm Pilot to call the bank about a tooth equity loan later in the afternoon. Gone are the days when you take care of these things in two stages--one day for impressions and another to place the freshly milled overlay probably produced in garage by someone with a total of three teeth, all rotten, to his name. Now they have Cerac, a costly but more technologically advanced way for you to part with your money in a quicker and more intense fashion. They coat your tooth with something that, when scanned, send the topographical and color information to a compter. These results, after a few on screen tweaks by the dentist to justify both his very existence and his bill, are then sent to an onsite milling machine which carves your new overlay from a solid block of glass like stuff. A few needles, drills and epoxies later and my winning smile is back. Sadly, being 1500 smackers poorer gives me less to smile about, but I comfort myself in knowing I will bring joy to the world through the comedic nature of my speech: Thanks to a mouthful of anesthetic, I now talk as though my IQ has plummeted 100 points. This is not good seeing as how my perceived IQ was already on shaky ground because of my southern drawl.

Posted by elisa at 11:51 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)