Homework pain

Childbirth and its recovery were painful experiences. Tearing my rotator cuff and the tendons in my ankle were painful. Having those repaired was painful. In fact, I can think of all sorts of pain I have suffered in my life, but none of it compares to watching my son do his homework.

Homework started in kindergarten. It was simple then...color a picture, circle some animals, and draw lines between matching objects. Its purpose was to prepare my son for first grade where he'd have a little more homework. His kindergarten teacher stressed that homework should take no more than fifteen minutes. She hadn't, however, met my son.

We'd sit down after dinner to complete his homework, theoretically supposed to take fifteen minutes. Between the crying and temper tantrums--from both of us, really--he'd finally finish a couple of hours later. It was exhausting! I'd like to say that homework has grown familiar for us, but it hasn't. My son fights it for nearly eight months, eventually reconciling himself to it around the beginning of April. We have about six weeks of peaceful homework time, with him accurately and quickly finishing it.

But it's September, not April, and his homework isn't supposed to take 15 minutes per night, it's supposed to take forty minutes. Forty minutes! I know to double or triple that time, which isn't far off. Since my son was recently diagnosed as 'advanced' or 'gifted,' we thought that would give him the impetus and confidence to do his work. Nope. He takes forever to do his work, and the time often involves tears. I try not to cry in frustration, but it's hard when he's saying, "I have to create problems where the answer is 40 but I can't use the number4." And then it takes 35 minutes for him to think of a few problems. I leave the room in frustration.

He also refuses to do his homework at the kitchen table or his nice desk. Instead, he spreads his work all over the couch, making it impossible for us to sit on it too. Or if we're cooking dinner he's asking constant questions about his work from the living room, resulting in one or both of us frustrated because I can't hear the questions, and I won't walk into the living room to help him. Surprisingly, his math homework takes the longest. I say surprisingly because he has scored advanced on math tests and his math work is really good.

Homework requires patience, and after a long day working with students who require patience, I find I'm short on it when at home. I dread homework because he turns it into such a problem, a drawn out, sordid affair. As homework times winds down, I'm about to pull hair...his because he makes the simplest assignment as difficult as a master's thesis and mine because I'm frustrated. I'm shocked at my attitude because I see the value in homework, but my son doesn't. Regardless of what we say, he fights his work with every fiber of his being. I relish homework free nights, I have to confess.

I don't mind homework, but watching my son do it is like watching paint dry. It's more painful than any injury or surgery I've had. My mind screams obscenities while I smile and breathe for patience.

Well, it's time to get back to homework help.

Our little family

My husband and I are the proud parents of one child, a boy. Sure, when we first married, we were excited to have a couple of kids, preferably a boy and a girl (my husband's wish) or two boys (my wish). Sadly, my body could barely carry one to full term, and the idea of 30 weeks of bedrest with a toddler felt impossible to me. It's taken me nearly 10 years to get my energy back, and I'm still working on my body.

But three seems to be a perfect number for us. It has religious significance: Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, for example. Father, Son, and Holy Spirit as another example. We also have three bathrooms, which is absolutely perfect some nights! In restaurants, it's usually easier to seat three more quickly than four.

While many folks want to criticize us for having 'only' one child, we are grateful for the one child we have. Some tell us how lonely our son must be without brother and sisters, but he doesn't know differently, so how can he be lonely? I'm always amazed at how easily people who don't know us and our experiences judge us for our 'selfish' choice. We don't see ourselves as selfish; we see ourselves as lucky because we nearly didn't have our son.

And he is an amazing young man! As I write this, he's shredding zucchini to help his dad bake chocolate zucchini bread. He's interested in cooking, working with his hands, helping his dad make things, and mowing the lawn. He draws, paints, plays a drum, shoots a compound bow, and likes camping. His newest hobby is playing games on the computer, which he can do for great lengths of time, and it causes his attention span to decrease. He's also interested in reading, watching movies and TV shows, the art and natural history museums. Plus his interest in karate. There are also his dislikes: cleanliness, doing dishes and laundry, putting away his clothes, doing homework, and cleaning up dog poop. He's a happy child, who giggles easily and smiles often. 

Recently, he found out he doesn't like sharing a seat on the bus when his class went on a field trip. And since his dad and I both have brothers, we torture him much like we tortured our siblings, playing games like "I'm not touching you," wrestling, and "why?" Much like our siblings, he hates those games, but we think they're good for him so he isn't missing out too much as an only child.

Our family treasures our group hugs and other moments together. We play card and board games with one another, ride our bikes together, go hiking together. We want our son to know how much we love him as well as know how to enjoy the world beyond our four walls. We want him to know how to do his laundry and cook for himself so he can survive on his own eventually. He also makes his own lunch so he can pack what he wants for lunch. He's an independent child, for the most part.

As I write, the guys are baking. I've made dinner--it's in the oven. We'll eat dinner, have a bit of dessert, and then crawl into the couch to cuddle and watch some cartoon movie. Sure, we get mad at each other, we frustrate one another, but ultimately, we love one another and truly enjoy spending time together.

I am a blessed and happy woman.

My son came to school with me today as there was testing at his school. We had no one to care for him, so coming to high school made sense. As a Webelo, he needs to sell popcorn, and teachers and staff are wonderful about helping with fundraising. This was a good day to experience high school and watch his mom in action.

While my sweet son is an early riser, he was dragged out of bed even earlier than usual. He shoveled a quick breakfast of cereal and was hustled upstairs to get ready for the day. His natural tendency is dawdling, and while we know not to raise our voices to make him hurry--that has the opposite effect--there was some voice raising and horn honking as he looked for this and that. Because he is organizationally challenged, we were 10 minutes late leaving, which truly flummoxes me, and I feel flustered and brusque when trying to start my work day. Naturally, students were waiting for me, which also caused me to feel frustrated.

Once we were settled into the rhythm of the day, my son explored the school a bit. While he's grown up in the school, he still forgets the names of our staff or where certain people are. I actually had to forgo work during my planning block to walk him around, mostly so he could hit up people to buy popcorn. It's been awhile since his last visit, and everyone was shocked at how much he's grown. I'm amazed to still be in this school, working with some of the same people who knew me before I was a married mom. I have to say, though, my heart was nearly bursting with pride as we visited with certain people who've known him since before birth.

We also had lunch together, and while I generally prefer a solitary lunch, it was delightful to sit with my son in my classroom and 'do lunch.' He asked me why we can't go out when he visits, but frankly, there's so little time to do so. Because my little guy is so mature and generally well-spoken, many adults like him to visit with them for a bit. It means a great deal to him to be with the teachers.

Naturally, our principal, mischievous as he is, always does something to 'get' at me, something fun. Today he gave my guy 20 popsicles to take with him. 20! What I love about my son is how little fear he has of principals since he's been around one or more his entire life. In fact when his principal retired last year, he made her a card, thanking her for being such a good principal furing his first year at the school.

We didn't leave until nearly 4, and exhaustion began to creep over my son. At dinner, he could hardly keep his eyes open; at the grocery store, I think the cart kept him upright. High school is tiring for nine year olds! He was so tired, honestly, he put himself to bed tonight while we put away groceries. When we checked on him, our son was sound asleep, worn out from his adventurous day.

When asked about the best part of his high school day, he told me it was having lunch with me. I am truly blessed.

Failure to communicate

Communication is key to maintaining good relationships, whether they are personal or professional. And  yet it seems so difficult for so many to take the time to listen to others and understand varying points of view. Failure to do so results in frustration, anger, and poor relationships.

There are so many ways to communicate, and yet we seemingly grow worse with it. It's hard to understand the tone of an email or text, and it's easy to respond with hostility when feeling confronted. Texts are the same; it's easy to misinterpret the tone of a text, and even easier to respond hurtfully. Granted, email and texting make it easier and quicker to communicate; it's easy to hit send rather than talk to someone face to face.

Between my students and my coworkers, I'm inundated each day with a barrage of emails. While I don't necessarily mind, I am frustrated when my messages are misread or misunderstood or not read at all. It's hard to communicate face to face with people who don't listen, so it seems logical to send an email, right? That way those folks who have difficulty in focusing on what's said can read and reread a message. Wrong! Even then the emails are misunderstood and a ruckus is made. For what purpose? How hard is it to take a few minutes to reread a message before responding and hitting send? How much easier work would be if people read their compositions as well as the emails they receive.

It's the same at home. Regardless of the number of ways to communicate, misunderstandings occur. Plans are made or something happens that isn't relayed to the other. Naturally, feelings are hurt, frustration grows, and on occasion, harsh words are said. Once "send" is pushed, there's no going back. The words float in cyberspace and cannot be taken back. Before cell phones, I remember people making effort to call loved ones to tell them if they'd be late or not. Now it's almost too inconvenient to do so.

We are so quick to respond emotionally to any and all situations. When did we become so infantile? When do we learn to handle breakdowns in communication with logic and reason rather than emotion and sarcasm? Isn't it more effective to take a deep breath and to consider how or what to respond before doing so? A friend talks about how we all have our 'goggles,' which I totally understand, but how do we develop our own awareness of when our goggles are affecting our abilities to listen and respond effectively

I like to think I'm pretty good at communcation, but I've had several incidents in the last few days that cause to me reconsider this evaluation of myself. I've received tonal email from parents, students, and coworkers, and quite frankly, I'm feeling like telling everyone, "If you've got something to say to me come and say it to my face. Stop hiding behind email!" My job is hard enough, and then to have this added stress of poor communication makes my job even harder. It would be nice to have people grow up a little, to stop taking everything as a personal attack, and to learn to listen better as part of communicating more effectively.

The love of my dog

In January of 2006, we adopted our lovely dog, Daisy, from a colleague. Daisy was the shy dog of the litter, and we nearly fell on her, trying to get her to come to us. She whimpered all the way home while we excitedly discussed her name. No matter what we suggested, we finally accepted the fact that her given name-Daisy-fit her best. I'd always thought my first dog would have a literary name, and I finally realized there was a Daisy Buchanan in The Great Gatsby, so I agreed that Daisy would be the perfect name for our new dog.

Daisy is a caramel colored dog with chocolate brown eyes, white tipped paws, and a long white spot on her chest. Her tail curls up and her ears are large and floppy. Daisy hates confinement, which is why putting her into a crate was such a bad idea. She'd pee and poop in her crate, and then she'd huddle in a corner until I came home. We learned quickly that if Daisy doesn't want to do something, she's not going to do it. In that she is much like the rest of us; it's hard to make us do what we don't want to do.

9 months after we adopted Daisy, we adopted another dog to help her learn to be a dog. She, up to that point, had destroyed our yard with digging and eating anything made of wood. She destroyed the fence line as she ran up and down all day long, barking at the dogs next door. Our house was equally unlucky. When left to her own devices, she would sit on the back of the couch, eat batteries, pee in the bathtub, and eat our son's toys. An older dog, a dog we named Jesse after Uncle Jesse of the Duke's of Hazzard,was our best bet to help Daisy figure out what it meant to be a dog.

Jesse taught Daisy a great deal, and when he died a few years later, Daisy assumed her position as 'head dog' of our little family. She keeps us in line; she mothers us, telling us what to do. She follows me everywhere. It's a bit like having another child in the house because I'm never alone, even in the bathroom. She sleeps on our bed, protects our house, and reminds us to walk her regularly. With the installation of dog doors, Daisy is now able to stay in the house with access to the outside.

She also loves to be out in the snow, and there's never a shoveling experience that doesn't involve Daisy "helping" in her Daisy way...chasing the shovel, eating snow, jumping into snow piles. Another of her loves is sitting in front of the screen door in the summer, smelling summer's life. When we sit out front, Daisy likes to sit with us, watching life go back and forth. It doesn't matter where we are, Daisy is nearby.

Walks are always adventures with Daisy on the leash. She likes to bark all the way down the street, letting all the other dogs know that Daisy's on a walk. She hates small dogs, so she will always charge them, nearly pulling our arms off in her attempts to fight them. She loves to play with other dogs though and has rarely met a dog she didn't like. We explore all sorts of areas together, and Daisy is always sad when a walk is over.

Surprisingly, Daisy has some best doggie friends: Titus from down the street who looks like her brother; Spirit from up the street; Patience who is always getting out of her yard and coming into ours...but she lives around the corner. Her best friend is Buddy, who is so short and squat, Daisy can stand over him. She likes going to his house as much as he likes coming to her house to play.

Daisy has changed our lives immeasurably. We have become a family of dog lovers, who talk to their dog as though she truly understands what we say. Daisy isn't often left behind since she loves walks; she doesn't like camping as much as we do, however, but she'll grudgingly go because she can ride in the truck and be with us. Ultimately, being with us is Daisy's priority. And we are a better family because of her.

Quiet time

Shooing my husband and child to bed is quite a task. Finally, when the upstairs floor boards groan and pop as they stumble over them and into bed, it's my time. Quiet time.

Our dog sits with me, one ear cocked in case I get up, dozing on the floor as I relish my Friday night quiet time. My head echoes with the voices and school bells of the day and I begin to wind down. I begin to let go of the stresses of the week, while ghosts of students, past and present, clank around in my mind.

Friday night, for me, is a thinking night. Now I know that sounds a bit stupid, but I need the quiet time to think about everything and nothing. I think of school, my mom, this week's karate lesson, kids I'm worried about, politics, my dad...thought whirl and bump and scream throughout my brain. The night quiet allows them to wear themselves out so I can sleep peacefully. I replay a week's worth of conversations in my head, allowing them a chance to be heard one last time before drifting away into their storage spot.

I love Friday nights because I get to catch up with myself, check in, and see how I'm doing. As the minutes pass, our dog sighs, groans, and finds new positions, telling me that, really, she's ready for bed. While I appreciate her input, I know that my mind isn't ready for bed. Years ago, as a young teacher, I would fall asleep on the futon on Friday nights, exhausted by my new teacher enthusiasm. Rarely do I fall asleep on the couch now, but when I do, it does feel a bit like a luxury.

My husband doesn't understand my need to stay up late on Friday night, even though I've explained it several times. There's something about a nearly quiet house, creaks and cracks and pops included, that restores me. I have unwound. And now it's time for bed.

Tears of sorrow

My son cried himself to sleep tonight. His last great grandmother passed away last week, and I think her death was his 'final straw.' He is missing his Memaw, my mother. He has realized the finality of death. No more pancakes or scrambled eggs for him, which made him cry harder.

It's interesting to hear what he misses since his Memaw has died. He misses breakfasts with her. It's odd that he doesn't miss some of the other things they did together, like watering plants, vacuuming, watching cartoons together. She liked taking him to Target, buying him a toy each time they went. He misses those toy buying trips.

He had a great deal of freedom when he was with Memaw. He ate marshmallows for breakfast one time, and they went to Wendy's a couple times a month. I know he misses marshmallows for breakfast...a food item not allowed at the breakfast table. We hardly eat fast food, so he craves Wendy's on occasion.

I think he really just misses time with his Memaw. They were good buddies and saw one another nearly every day of his life. Memaw was a good grandmother to my son; she spoiled him like a grandmother should, but she always told him how much she loved him. His heart is sore; his eyes full of tears. He doesn't understand death, but really, who does? His great grandmothers were both in failing health and in pain, but not Memaw. Why, he asks, why did Memaw die? I wish I could answer him, but instead, I hold him tightly and cry with him.

RIP Novels

The novel is dead. Maybe not good and trashy novels, but the classic novel is dead. Teachers, however, don't necessarily know the novel is dead, which is why they keep assigning it, but henceforth it shall be known, the novel is no more.

In the 21st century, we need to focus on bytes rather than comples thoughts. Texts rather than complete sentences. Nonfiction rather than fiction. Classic literature is dead.

Long, well-developed sentences are no longer necessary; ditto for spelling, grammar and punctuation. 21st century students need to know how to write in first person, tell a story, and while they're at it, who needs a thesis or any kind of evidence? Make up statisics on the spot, I say!

Pictures, photoshop, and webcasts, that's where the future will be! Who needs thought? Who needs planning? Write on the fly, hit send, and you're free. Free to express yourself in any way, shape or form. Who cares if students can't spell or understand parts of speech? No one wants to kill creativity.

In the 21st century it's all about me, me, me. Put me on YouTube, set up a free blog, pay attention to me. Essays are too long, make them shorter instead. The future's not literary; it's free, free, free. Call back the books, throw them out, put them in a museum. They're old, they're boring, they don't relate to me. Find me something on Alba, Gaga, or Bieber, not Faulkner, Morrison, or Shakespeare. They're old, they're dead. I can't relate to them, and if I can't relate to them then out in the trash I throw them with glee.

My attention span's waning. Who cares it's only 12 minutes? Let's cater to it, the national attention span average, throw out the novels, the spelling, the grammar, let us all be free, free, free, free to be ourselves, unhampered by novels, instead read blurbs, and blogs and articles. Make sure the reading level is 3rd to 6th, we don't want to work too hard. Because if we do, oh my, we might have to crack open a novel, a grammar book, or--heaven forbid!--learn how to spell or critically think!

Bullies

Bullies exist regardless of the number of anti-bullying programs currently available. Most of us have been bullied at one time or another and lived to tell about it. Others haven't been so lucky, succumbmng to their bullies by killing themselves. There are numerous reasons for bullies, but none excuse their behavior.

As a child, I was often bullied for being chubby, smart, wearing glasses, and having braces. When I moved to a new state and school, I stood up to a girl, who proceeded to bully me until we were juniors in high school. I asked for help in dealing with her, and I was told to avoid her. That's how we were helped in the 80s. If a student confides in me about being bullied, I immediately follow the action plan we have and notify the proper authorities. Bullies are supposedly not tolerate, but then we all know that isn't true.

However, adult bullies are more difficult to deal with. Adult bullies use various media to send out their messages of hate and intolerance. Adult bullies make up lies, use police or lawyers, and instill fear in their perceived enemies. Adult bullies use their children and the friends of their children to cause panic and fear in others. Because adult bullies often have more money and more power, they are able to flout their attitudes and cause problems for others. How are they stopped?

Currently it seems as though they can't be stopped. With Facebook, Myspace, and blogs, bullies can spread their negativity throughout cyberspace. If they can't obtain their desired results they can write letters or articles for local newspapers, once again spreading their messages of hate and intolerance. The worst part is when bullying takes place in a work environment and the boss is unwilling to support her employees, employees feel powerless, scared, and stressed. No work environment can be successful with people who feel powerless and scared. Why tolerate bullies in the workplace? Why tolerate bullies at all?

I challenge those who are bullied to stand up and defy the bullies. Continue to push the issue until it is resolved. And for those who are bullies? Grow up. Get ahold of yourself. Get a life, you pathetic pieces of trash.