Category: Marriage and Family

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.

 

 

 

This one was posted on Facebook not too long ago, and I had some requests to re-post it here.

As a teacher and a mother, I spend a huge amount of time thinking about and dealing with homework. Forget about correcting homework for a moment. Let’s just focus on the role of the parent in this equation. It is common for me to spend 3-4 hours a night on homework between three kids. Asking about homework. Checking the homework folder/agenda/online assignment notebook. Answering questions. Checking for completion. Reminding them to read. Quizzing spelling words. Looking up online passwords for the math game/ google tools/ quizlet that they need to finish. Reading notes from teachers. Writing notes to teachers. Looking up the phone number for the ‘homework buddy’ who can tell them what questions are on the worksheet they left in their cubby/locker/desk. Yelling about the fact that the worksheet is still in the cubby/locker/desk. Texting the mom of the ‘homework buddy’ to thank her because it was really HER who looked up the questions for us. Asking the kids to explain what they have to do and being met by blank stares or tears. Crying because this has been going on for HOURS, and there is no end in sight.

Our school does school pictures twice a year. The procedure for fall pictures is slightly different than the procedure for spring pictures. In the fall, they assume competence. It’s still early in the school year. The kids have some decent new clothes that fit. Some parents are still on top of checking the homework folder and the agenda and reading the school’s 17 billion weekly emails. So in the fall, they send home the notice. They send you a form to complete and send back with your check for exorbitantly priced photos. A bunch of kids come to school dressed nicely, with their hair combed. Kids bring in a little envelope and a check. It’s all very organized.

 

In the spring, the photo companies assume (correctly) that the parents are burnt out… so this round plays on parental guilt. I assume a notice is still sent home, but the expectation isn’t that you order ahead of time. Instead, they take the photos, print them out, and send them home with your kid. And they don’t just send photos. They send magnets and weird ID cards and photo key chains and all kinds of crap that nobody wants. In these photos, your kid is probably wearing a hand-me-down Mickey Mouse t-shirt that doesn’t quite fit right, and he desperately needs a haircut. At this point, you have two options. You can send the photos back, so these heartless bastards can needlessly shred expensive portraits of your special little cupcake (this option also includes endless whining from said cupcake about how s/he NEEDS a weird photo ID card or cheap keychain of their own face). Or, you can send these scheming asshats another exorbitant check and add these photos to the pile of papers on the kitchen table (with every intention of at least framing one and sending a few off to the grandparents) only to find them still there in the envelope eight months later when you finally get around to going through that particular pile of crap.

 

I should admit that my response to school pictures has evolved over the years. When my first was young, I was all over school pictures. We had a nice outfit. I filled out the form and sent in my check and reminded my little nugget to smile nicely. Some of these early photos were cute. Others were less so. But I felt confident in my ability to handle this school picture thing. The first time I forgot school picture day, my oldest was in third grade. That’s not an awful record, right? Except my youngest was in Kindergarten. How could I possibly forget about his KINDERGARTEN school photo? I left work on my lunch break to bring in the form and my check to make sure that my precious pumpkin got to bring home some photos. I felt like a failure. But I quickly grew accustomed to it.  In subsequent years, when I realized I had forgotten yet again, I’d reason, “They’ll send me photos in the spring. I’ll just wait for that.”

 

But this year, something changed. I now have a teenaged girl. This young lady is gorgeous. She’s crazy beautiful. And she hates having her picture taken. She covers her face. She hides. She yells and cries if she thinks I’ve snuck a picture of her. So now, the school picture has become infinitely more valuable. And I decided to do something differently.

 

I put the date in my smartphone calendar. And this brilliant little computer dinged to tell me that today was picture day, and when I realized that I was out of checks and couldn’t find the form, I looked back in my email for a link where I could enter my credit card number. You guys, I REMEMBERED school picture day.   Isn’t there some kind of parenting award for that?

 

 

There is a weight on my chest today, making it hard to breathe. It feels like a combination of heartburn and fear, but its source is a little elusive. There’s no reason for me to be anxious. Life is good.

 

I recently shared with a friend (as if it were a shameful secret) that things are going incredibly well. My marriage is solid. My kids are thriving. I’m feeling organized and successful at work. I lost two pounds this week (only 78 to go!) and I launched my blog yesterday. And then, I shared my fear that all this success isn’t sustainable. As if I were over-cultivating my garden. I’m enjoying this harvest, but I can’t expect it to last.

 

So it doesn’t. Perhaps it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy. This fear of things falling apart leads me to perceive that things are falling apart. A rather innocuous email from my son’s teacher feels like an accusation (“Did I see the homework agenda last night?”). An overcooked dinner feels like a personal failure, and a simple observation from my husband on the phone (“You seem distracted”) feels like an attack.

 

This unease and anxiety is contagious, and I find myself in the unfortunate position of dealing with a crying, stressed out child in the midst of battling this weight on my chest. Even the dogs sense my mood; they beg for affection that I’m unable to give.

 

So I breathe. I pour a glass of chardonnay or a cup of tea. I pet the dog I don’t feel like petting and I hug the kid who isn’t acting particularly lovable. Sometimes I cry and explain to my kids that grownups have feelings too. Sometimes we commiserate, because these perceptive children also occasionally confess to me that they feel like crying, but they’re not sure why.

 

It seems like it should be so simple. My brain clarifies that there is NO ACTUAL PROBLEM. There are imagined slights and differences in perspective and heightened sensitivity. There are anxieties and fears but none of these things have manifested into anything real. They exist only in my overactive brain and I should be able to control them or at least turn down the volume of the noise. But this does not always come naturally.

 

I have a bedtime routine with the kids. They’re too old for it, but neither they nor I seem to want to let it go. Each night before bed, they get ‘mom cuddles.’ Sometimes this is a chapter from a shared story and tickles and slow, sleepy stories about what happened at school. Sometimes it is shouting and nagging and frustrated reminders like, “I love you, too, but for the love of God; please stop talking.” Most often it falls somewhere in the distracted middle of motherhood. I sniff his head and remember that I forgot to remind him to shower. I make a mental list of the tasks I will accomplish once they fall asleep. I beg for them to stop moving and talking and asking rhetorical questions.

 

But the beauty happens as the squirming stops and the chatter subsides. Their breathing slows and, instinctively, mine does, too. This is a moment of peace. The simplicity and beauty of sleepiness swirls around with a gratitude that is hard to find at any other time in my day. This is why the ‘mom cuddles’ continue, and why my heart will break a little when they end.