Elisa's Journal

Yup, I've been sucked in. Avoided it for the first 4 seasons, but couldn't escape this time. Now, I panic at the thought that something might interfere with that magic hour on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday when American Idol comes on. Last night, we had report card pickup at the middle school. Technically, we're supposed to get the kid's report card and meet each teacher to discuss how things are going, etc. But I snatched the report card from the counselor's hands, went to the cafeteria where the teachers were sitting a tables arranged in a circle, and executed the 500 m sprint easily rivaling Apollo Ohno's gold medal run. And the frenetic wave of my hand didn't seem to slow me down, either. Let's see ya manage that Apollo! I actually hate meeting teachers because I feel compelled to throw myself at their feet and beg for mercy, especially those who've had the older siblings too. Bless the poor souls. Then again, part of me wants to show up and put on the "see, I'm an intelligent, responsible, tough love parent doing the right thing. Ain't my fault. Just a quirky gene (from my husband's side.) Anyway, back to American Idol. I just love playing the part of the judge, slashing contestants to ribbons though my voice sounds like a pig in the throes of an imminent slaughter. Even in the shower. So now it's "Hmm, she's a bit pitchy," or "Wow, that was the bomb!" or "Where's the stage presence? Where's the X factor?" The other day, Lukas stalled (as usual) on doing his homework and each stab he made at it was woefully incomplete. At first, he'd hide worksheets just to get out to doing it, "I can't find it! Oh well," only I'd "find it" conveniently hidden in the kitchen trash. He'd sometimes tell me his teacher told gave him express instructions not to do the assignment, and that if he failed to comply and actually did complete it, he'd be penalized severely. Talk about a lame liar! But when he finally got 'er done, I praised him as Randy would, "Dawg, I think you did good, man. Alittle shaky at first, but you hung in and worked it out. Dawg, it was okay for me." And I think a few of the male contestants are really hot for juveniles!" Too bad one of the best singers looks like he belongs in the foothills of the Appalachians sitting in the back of a Ford pickup wearing overalls on his shirtless body, sucking on a piece of straw, lovingly holding his Remington 357 Bolt Action Rifle in one hand and a dead possum in the other. I mean seriously! What are they going to do about those teeth if he wins? Whatever mule kicked him in the mouth needs to kick the other side to put things right again. But despite his looks, his voice makes him sexy.

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

Yay! Erik is finished with Driver's Ed! No more late nights. No more frantic rushes to finish homeschooling by six. No more exhaustion. Can't say that about mental exhaustion, though. He's getting better every day, but he still needs practice, of course. I guess I'll continue to deepen the well in the passenger side floorboard from my slamming on the imaginary brake for his near misses. I guess I'll continue to lean my body over to the left in my futile attempts to keep him from veering off to the shoulder. I guess I'll continue my white knuckled grip of the above-door handles as if that would save me when the car disintegrate into pieces the size of chewing gum, but hey. You parents with kids younger than 15...just you wait.

Posted by elisa at 11:33 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Our family isn't all that into Valentine's Day. Just an exchange of sappy cards and stuff. I usually give the kids a nice box of chocolate truffles, but they covet them so intensely that they're afraid to eat them, lest they disappear eternally from their life. So I usually find the box, completely full and forgotten in some remote, cobweb infested cabinet. Take it from me, they don't, like fine wines, age with time (and mold). To get back on track, however briefly, we stayed home, watched American Idol and ate pizza. I did bake the kids some Valentine's Day cookies and do their chores for them. Fortunately, it was their light day--just emptying trash throughout the house. Nevertheless, because my kids have strong allergies to work of any kind, I was feeling quite charitable and proud as I drove to the school's parent drive to pick Annika up. Couldn't wait to spring the big news on her--yep, she would have a bonafide chore-free day. Whoopee. But at the apex of my euphoria, I saw a white stretch limo that was a quarter mile long if it was an inch, idling in the middle of the parent drive circle as if to announce, "Here to pick up the important kids. Nothing to see here, Peons. Go back to your meaningless existences." Some lucky kids got a ride home in the limo as a Valentines Day present. Hmmm. Let's see. No trash duty, limo ride. No trash duty, limo ride. Decisions, decisions. Naturally, my maternal ego was a bit deflated, but I justified the whole thing with thoughts like, "Ha, do they ever have a pile of trash waiting for them at home," and "Poor kids, they didn't get into the limo until 99% of the other kids had been picked up already. No parading their extravagance in front of the peasants. How sad." Anyway, I hope your Valentines Day was fun and trash-free too.

Posted by elisa at 10:35 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Beware, you new and inevitably clueless parents out there who think that the worst thing about enrolling your teen in Driver's Ed is the cost. Ha! What a delusion. Of course it's a helluva lot better than doing the teaching yourself. Think about the additional life insurance premiums, psychotherapy, and vodka that would entail. (To satisfy you lawyers out there, I'll make this caveat: no drinking, calling your insurance agent, or lying in the back seat recounting everything you hate about your mother while lessons are in progress. Happy now?) Anyway, my third time at bat has begun. Erik, now 16, is in driver's ed and I (gulp) must give him the practice time he needs. I thought it'd be easier than it was with his two older sisters because he's always had a knack with vehicles. But, the kid has also mastered Grand Theft Auto, Hot Rod, and other video games that have turned his foot into lead and his mentality into a cross between James Bond and Mario Andretti. One of the most painful routines we must bear for the driving practice sessions is his "SMILE" routine: some mnemonic to help him remember certain things before proceeding in a forward direction like making sure the steering wheel is 15 inches from his abdomen, adjusting the seats, adjusting the mirror (then removing leftover breakfast from his braces while he's at it,) making sure nothing in the backseat can become an in-flight missile, buckling seatbelts, filing a flight plan, getting the latest weather on route, etc. He takes forever! Holy crap, he's not about to launch into outer space in the Space Shuttle! We're just going to the corner store a mile away! Despite my frustration and my desire to get the inevitable over with as quickly and painlessly as possible, I bite my tongue and look out my window so he won't see the pained expression on my face. What we lose in time during the preflight procedure we gain in his quickness on the road. For instance, he doesn't hesitate with his driving decisions. That's bad because my cobweb-ridden brain needs time to make decisions like "is it safe for him to turn onto this street now?" or "will he slow down for the school zone?" or "Does he see those children in the road?" or "Is he really aiming for that mail box?" or "Do I want to live today?" I try to keep my voice as calm as possible and react nonchalantly to his near misses, but the sounds of panic cannot be denied. They must be freed to alert anybody and everybody to impending disaster. So there's always a little high pitched strain in my voice. Kinda like trying to force molasses through a sieve. Sometimes I try to overcompensate by forcing additional calmness in my tone, but it comes off kinda creepy because I wind up sounding like Carrie or Jack Nicholson in "The Shining." Nevertheless, Erik's judgment is usually pretty good. Just the typical new driver things like cutting a turn to close and riding up on the curb (I wear a kidney belt now) and forgetting to look before changing lanes (your turn signal doesn't engage some magic force field or commandeer control of cars racing up alongside you.) He has a hard time juggling lots of information at once. so he can get stuck on making sure he's going the speed limit so much that his eyes are glued to the dashboard, not the road so his speed might abruptly plummet to zero when his car plows into the rear-end of another car. But, unlike the girls, Erik takes instruction and criticism well. Oh, I almost forgot another drawback to having a new driver in the family--the incessant obsession over his eventual car. Guy spends more time on Auto Trader than Algebra 2. (How could that be possible, you ask?) He's made up his mind at least once a week that his definite carved in stone first car will be a Passat, no a Mustang, no, a Jeep Wrangler, no, a Mini-Cooper if it isn't a girlie car, no a...what? I have to get a job? Mom, can I borrow the Suburban?

Posted by elisa at 09:04 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)