Well, good for you. (I said that with a snotty, nasal tone~just FYI)
ME, on the other hand, is equally~nay~MORE BLESSED THAN THEE, to be the mother of a girl off track. That's right. Off track. Which means another delightful 2 1/2 weeks of daughter-babble-white-noise interrupted with an occasional, "MOM! MOM! You didn't answer me!" She just walked over and started to twist my unkempt hair into spikes all over my head. I now have hair horns in four sections on my skull. And no, there will be no accompanying picture so uncross those fingers.
So anyway, I'll try to get back onto a blogging schedule, now that you're all done being preoccupied with menial things like your children, husband, home and Easter. Now you can give ME the time and attention that I require...AND DESERVE...because it's all about Lisa, folks. All about Lisa.
So we had a fun weekend "Come to Jesus" with our second son. Hold on for a sec. Sorry, I had to stop and watch while my daughter played "air piano" (like air guitar) for me. It was necessary to show me RIGHT NOW that she knew more of her harder recital piece~the one that she screamed, howled and bawled was "WAAAAYYY TOOOO HAAAARRRRDDDD FOR A LITTLE GIRL LIKE ME." But now she can play it. Where was I? Sorry, wait. Just a second. She needed to know RIGHT NOW exactly when the TV pitch man Willie Mayes had died. Followed by a moment of silence together to remember how sad that was.
OK, so back to Jesus. Yeah, so second son got kind of mixed up between his elder brother's 19 year old pre-missionary freedom and that of his own 16 year old present day. Thinking they were one and the same, including access to cars, curfews and cash. Silly boy. He was mistaken. The catalyst for the kite strings being pulled in was the call Saturday night from his friend's cell phone and an uncertain voice stating~
"Um, so Chris told me to call you, cuz his car lights just went out. We're screaming down the road at 55 MPH in a spray painted matte black car, in the pitch black of the night, four idiot boys with an underdeveloped quarter brain between us, and no headlights. So, um, what should we do?" That middle part wasn't actually spoken, just understood. Husband's calm answer?
"GOOD HELL! TAKE YOUR FOOT OFF THE ACCELERATOR AND PULL OVER!"
"Oh. OK. Then what?"
Teenagers should be illegal.
Now son wasn't fully aware when he arrived home that he was about to be "restricted," and thought there would be gobs of sympathy and/or empathy shown him by his parentals. He came into our bedroom, blowing his pity party horn with, "Oh my gosh. TWO things happened to me! ONE, my car lights went out. THEN, I locked my KEYS in my car!" Just so you know, this was the one, two, THIRD time in six days that he'd locked his keys in the car. Not even shizzing. And do you suppose there had been a suggestion by his mother after the FIRST lock-out, that FIRST ON HIS LIST should be to have another key made?! Why, yes. Yes, it had been mentioned. And dismissed as insane.
So he was surprised beyond measure when we yanked that blow horn out of his mouth and smashed it to smithereens with our angry slit eyes commentary. But that's not the end.
The end is this~he felt safe enough to tell us the next day, that because of our quick privilege smiting, the rest of his woe is me never had the chance to cross his lips the previous night. Apparently, NOT ONLY had he locked his keys in his car again...BUT...he'd also locked the TOOLS inside that he'd borrowed from his father in order to break IN to the locked car the first and second time. Mmm hmmmm. That's right.
The makings of a memory right there. And a blog.
To which I say, "Thank you, second son. And bless your underdeveloped brain's heart."