I have discovered yet another form of parenting torture. Homework.
I used to have a sort of romantic notion of homework. Cozy afternoons spent around the kitchen table as we drink hot chocolate and I help my children form the habits and organizational skills that will help them become successful adults.
Well, I’m over it.
Never in my life have I had to endure something that can simultaneously make me feel so stupid and at the same time test my patience to such a level that I’m trying to remember what happened to that Vicodin prescription from The Hub’s root canal last year. This dual level of anguish is brought on by the fact that we have both a sixth grader and a second grader. On the one hand we have the Monkey, whose math homework is beginning to resemble something I once saw on a tour of the Air and Space Museum. On the other hand is the ladybug. Sweet, sweet ladybug, who is taking her sweet sweet time learning to read and write.
Afternoons in our house go a little something like this:
Monkey: Mom, can you explain to me what the variable is?
Ladybug: Mom, can you do flashcards with me?
Monkey: If you could just help me find the factor of the divisor subtracted from the variant, then I can do it myself. (Read more…)
We’ve all heard the “Can Women Have It All?” argument discussed ad nauseum so I’m not going to open that can of worms. But I am going to say that, in my experience, we not only have it all but do it all: work (whether office or home), kid-wrangling, housekeeping, and – if we’ve really pulled it together – speaking civilly to our spouses once in awhile.
I do it all, but how much of it do I do well?
I started pondering this recently when I went back to work part-time. My brief job/kid history: I worked 32 hours a week for the first two years of son H.’s life, then quit when we discovered that he had developmental delays (later found to be autism). Within a couple months, we moved to a small town from the city and I began my life as a fulltime SAHM and housewife.
That was a tough transition. I was used to coffee breaks and restaurant lunches, sick days and performance reviews. (Read more…)
The monsters are in the house, and apparently nothing good can come of this, so Mommy is on the case. Armed with my Tony-Award winning stage presence, and absolutely no dignity, I spring into action whenever Spicy Girl summons me with “Mommy, there is a monster in the room!”
“What? A monster! Where?”
“There!” She says, pointing into her bedroom.
“I’ll take care of it!” I run into my bedroom and emerge with a sword (back scratcher), super hero cape (organza wrap) and helmet (sunhat).
“Where is it?! Where is the monster!?”
“She’s over there!”
“Look here, monster, I am not going to put up with your monster-actions and uncivil behavior!” Spicy girl hovers in the doorway watching me as I get on all fours and sweep my sword under the furniture.
“Get out of this room! You have clearly over-stayed your welcome!” Spicy Girl begins moving into the room with a small grin and starts looking for the monster as I open the windows. (Read more…)
I think my sense of smell has heightened ever since becoming a mother.
I think, for the most part, that has been an unfortunate development.
Sometimes you just don’t want to know that something smells wrong. Ignorance is bliss. If you never smelled something wrong, then you wouldn’t feel compelled to look for the source, and you wouldn’t have to ultimately face what then has to be faced. Because you know you are not about to unearth rainbows or flowers or a leprechaun sitting on a pot of gold.
For instance, I’m always the first one who can smell if Luke’s diaper needs to be changed. Even if he’s just toddling by me, and I’m minding my own business, definitely NOT looking for an opportunity to practice my diaper-changing skills.
(Actually, come to think of it, maybe everyone else can smell it too but pretend they don’t.)
But, on the off chance that it could be a false alarm, I do the move that is now ingrained: the butt whiff. (Read more…)
