I can’t let it go… another post about homework

I met with Cal’s teacher yesterday. I cried in our meeting. I’m so worried about him. Homework consistently devolves into tears. He seems to be struggling so badly. Handwriting, math, spelling… it’s all hard for him. I went into that meeting knowing that we needed to change something about the homework. We made a plan. Instead of a reading log every day during the week, we’ll do his reading on the weekend. Instead of working on cursive letters, he’s going to practice printing legibly. I’ll make a checklist for home. She’ll make a checklist for him at school. It feels like we’ve got a plan, and I left feeling a little less afraid. I went home to help him with his homework.

And wouldn’t you know it? On THAT afternoon? His penmanship was decent. He did EXTRA math problems. He completed all of the homework beautifully. I began to question my sanity. Was I imagining a problem? Creating one? Maybe I don’t need to advocate for changes. Maybe I just needed to give him more time. More structure? His own little bucket of school supplies?

And naively, I was surprised tonight when the tears began. It started predictably. I asked him to take out his homework. “I don’t have any homework,” he replied. And by this, I know he means, “I don’t have a math worksheet tonight.” He does still have daily spelling and math facts practice and a handwriting worksheet and a reading log. So when I reminded him of these things, the moaning began. The moaning evolved into scribbling which prompted a reprimand which prompted full fledged tears. Why do we always end up in this same place?

The biggest problem of all is the way this dynamic impacts us all. Everyone is left feeling like a failure.

His teacher is working hard. She wants to make things better for him. But it’s not working.

Cal wants to be a good student. He wants to sit still and learn but it’s so very hard for him.

I want to be helpful. I want to support him and help him succeed, but I have three kids and a full time job and there are, quite literally, not enough after school hours to sit and provide support to three kids with learning disabilities and ADHD and still FEED them all.

All of us are victims of a system that is pushing higher and higher expectations on younger and younger students. I could go on for days about high stakes testing and developmentally appropriate curriculum. I have a ton of opinions about movement and mindfulness integration in schools. But none of them are helping my kid in the third grade right now.

Of course we want our kids to learn. But even more than that, don’t we want them to LOVE LEARNING? Don’t we want them to find passions and explore them? This kid is writing a book. He assembled a hydraulic arm and a robot hand and a potato clock this summer. He loves skateboarding and football and logic puzzles.

How do we foster these things in a school environment that leaves no time for show and tell or free play or building? How do we help our children to understand that they are beautifully and wonderfully made, that they have unique gifts and talents to share when they all have to complete the same worksheet at the same time?

Is homeschooling the only solution? I hope not, because I love my job. And I’m kind of attached to my paycheck.

As a mom, I know that structure is important for homework time, but as a realist, I’m also aware that each day’s schedule is not the same. So we have a few general guidelines. No screens unless your homework and chores are done.   A parent has to see the agenda or homework folder; you can’t just say you don’t have any.

I’ve tried having all kids at the same table so I can help them. That was a bad plan that usually wound up being a  giggle-fest about farts. In hindsight, maybe it wasn’t all that bad because it got us all laughing.

I’ve tried separating them into different rooms, but that usually just leaves me out of breath with something burning on the stove as they all shout, “I need help!”

There are no easy solutions… but as teachers, and as parents, there have to be things we can do differently.

In my classroom, I started a weekly “guest teacher” practice. The kids give an oral/ visual/ kinesthetic presentation about a subject of their choice. We’ve had kids teach gymnastics, origami, karate, and how to build a house of cards. It’s a variation on show and tell for middle schoolers, and it is undoubtedly their favorite thing to do. Every year, it comes up in teacher evaluations and end of the year surveys and they all ask, “Are we doing guest teacher next year, too?” I can get away with this because I teach English, so they’re writing and speaking and presenting. If I’m honest, I skip it when I’m feeling particularly behind or if I’m worried about my timing in a curriculum unit. But I there’s a reason why it’s so powerful; it’s one of the few times they can showcase their unique interests and talents.

As a parent, it’s harder for me. For each kid, the expectations are a little different. Cal does pull ups or climbs the door frame while he practices spelling. The kid needs to move. Lee has an online checklist because he doesn’t remember what he needs to do. Bea is a perfectionist who often needs to be reminded that she’s overthinking an assignment.

Music sometimes helps; something a little upbeat. When we can joke or add movement to studying, that’s always good. We all work a little better with a snack. And when things totally fall apart, the best fix is usually a good long hug and a fart joke.

I’m always trying to strike a balance between emphasizing the importance of education and becoming a well-rounded person. We do homework. But I try to make sure we do something else each night, too. Maybe that’s playing a board game. Or reading a story together. Sometimes it’s cleaning or chores, and other times it’s cooking or baking. Maybe it’s legos or drawing or storytelling.

I want them to know that their education is valuable… but I want them to understand that THEY are priceless. They are beautifully and wonderfully made and their gifts and talents will make the world a better place.  And that’s true even if they never master dividing fractions or forming a perfect cursive Q.