"Teach your children well..." Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young
Earlier this school year I got lectured by my sons' teachers. "We know this isn't THEIR homework," I was told as one held up a set of sheets that displayed my husband's poorly faked kindergarten handwriting. I was mortified, yet not shocked. I knew it had been happening, and I had tried to curb it at home. It was a very busy month. I had been grading essays and writing report cards for my own class. You can say as a mother I was pretty embarrassed...as a teacher it was double mortification. Even though the faux pas was daddy's doing, I felt fully responsible. Let's face it, no matter how much we march forward, the minute details (failures) of parenting are always going to fall on the mommy in the house.
Immediately I began to defend both my husband for taking the easy way out, and myself for not supervising more. I think as teacher-moms themselves they forgave me, but they made it clear that from that day forward if it wasn't in the twins' own handwritings, it wouldn't be accepted. Fair enough. I walked out with my tail between my legs and a self promise to be more involved in the boys' homework.
Since then kindergarten homework has become the bane of my existence. The last ball tossed up in the air of a day spent juggling a dozen different tasks and wearing as many different hats. My friend sent me a dishtowel for my birthday that says "Which wine pairs best with homework?" My answer to that would be all of them...simultaneously...through an IV. When did kindergarten homework get so complicated? Several times a week these kids come home with three pages of words to read, write, and cut. Numbers to add, draw, and also cut. As an educator I get it, homework is essential to reinforce and practice the skills of the day. But these kids JUST TURNED 6! They barely have the attention span to sit through dinner, the same dinner I'm trying to cook while I'm helping them with their homework, and longingly staring at that dishtowel wishing it was Friday so I could drink (I only drink on the weekends).
This month marks the 100th day of school in New York. With that comes the task of a 100 days of school project. Being I don't have the patience or dexterity to glue 100 Cheerios into a mosaic worthy of Michaelangelo, I decided a survey project would suffice. The boys, who are car enthusiasts, decided they wanted me to ask 100 people what make of car they drive. Full disclosure a Facebook friend had recently done a similar project on favorite foods with her son, so please don't praise me for originality. We easily got 100 answers and over the weekend headed to Starbucks to sip hot chocolates and compile our data.
The idea was for the kids to write tally marks down for each make we came across. I was going to chart the makes beforehand, but then thought about how they need to write things themselves. They took turns writing the cars. By the time Twin B finished writing Honda, I was already getting impatient. I reminded myself it was fine if it took time, just let them do what they need to. All was going ok until we came to Mercedes. How many letters is that? Oh hell no. Immediately the pencil was in my hand. We had now been tally marking for about a half hour. Pontiac? Nuh-uh. Oldsmobile? Wait, those still exist? By now the kids were only doing the tallies...wavy, diagonal, misplaced tallies making the data nearly impossible to read.
Then Twin B decides he has a tummy ache. This wouldn't have been so alarming had he not had diarrhea the night before. "You're kidding right?" "Oh mommy, I'm fine. I just farted!" Yes, he said that, really loud, in the middle of Starbucks. The people behind us laughed as I "quietly" reprimanded my son for making such an announcement and told him where he needs to ask to go the next time he has to do such a thing. While this was going on Twin A decided he was done. Done with his drink, done with his snack, done with his project, and done behaving. He told me this by rolling around on the floor...again in Starbucks. It was at that moment that B shouted, "I have to poop!" "Here? Now? You can wait until we get home, right?" "It's starting to come out." By this time I felt we had an audience (thankfully none of which was indulging in any overpriced brownies). Now I had to literally pull A up from the floor while running B to the bathroom. While trying to get a seat cover on in time for B, I also had to stop A from activating the wind tunnel volume hand dryer which was making his brother cry. Try doing all that while still making sure NOBODY touches anything.
We survived the bathroom debacle, I came out and finished the data sheets (screw any self promises I had made regarding kindergarten homework), and got out of there while a nice elderly man smiled at us and our mischief. There's always that one experienced person at Starbucks to put things into perspective. The rest of them are usually millennials who shoot eye daggers at us until we are safely in our car and can no longer spoil their latte break.
The moral of the story is this. Sometimes we are tired and it's just all too much. When these things occur it is ok to stop. It is ok to ask for help. If no help is available it's ok to walk away. I don't want my children to grow up to take the easy way out, but I also don't want them to burn out. If they become too focused on always getting the job done...well then they become me...and that has its own trappings. I'd say if the man in Oval Office can hang up on Australia when his day is long, well then surely the hubs and I can jump in and help our 6 year old sons when their homework is. Boy was I excited when I found pre-graphed poster board at the store. My, I mean their, 100 Cars to School project is going to rock!
*Miles run last week 12.75 Days until marathon 271.
