Well, I’m homeschooling.
Reluctantly.
This morning as I set the girls up for day one of their distance learning, all one did was ask if we had a ruler anywhere and I started to feel clammy up under my bra.
Anyone who knows me knows I love my children dearly, but I was just not cut out for this homeschool life.
I have several friends who homeschool expertly, and my hat is off to them,
but they are all the the types who enjoy things like white-board schedules, label makers, and participating in National History Day.
Me homeschooling, however, is more like
Bob Wiley in What About Bob;
Tied with ropes to the mast, wearing multiple life jackets, calling out to onlookers,
“I’m sailing! I’m doing it! Look at me! I’m SAILING!”
I might look like I’m doing it,
but, I assure you,
it took some strapping down,
and several firmly tied monkey-fist knots.
This morning I drove to my youngest daughter’s school to pick up a bag of all the books and supplies she would need for the next several weeks.
I had done only 3 makeup steps, and put on one of my day time T-shirts for presentation purposes of the portion of my body the teachers would see of me while I stayed seated in my car.
One glance below the driver’s side window ledge, however, would have revealed the now faithful presence of my pajama pants.
And not my regular ones even.
Today I was sporting my special edition 9 year old maternity ones;
Because nearly a decade later and they still feel REAL good, even if the waist-band does have to be hiked so high it lovingly touches the base of my underwire.
My daughter’s teacher and her dressy pant-suit waved from the school entry and gave instructions from a safe distance away about the 2-3 hours every day she would expect for schooling.
She mentioned video sessions, and something about logging in.
A “Parent Partner” I was cheerfully dubbed.
I sat there smiling, though only on the outside, because on the inside my brain poofed into fine Cheeto dust.
Paige’s teacher is amazing.
The type that was born to teach.
The type that wears leggings with pencils and apples and chalkboards with capital A’s.
Educating second graders lights a fire within her that you can clearly see in her eyes that glisten like Braveheart’s giving his battle cry.
My eyes, on the other hand,
give a different message;
and that is
“Honey, you are about to be all on your own with plotting out that seventh grade graph.”
I did well in school.
I was known for working quickly, and for shocking my friends at the pace at which I could finish my work so that I still had time for fun.
In high school I got straight A’s and graduated with honors.
But at the age of 22, I got pregnant with my first daughter, and the moment she was born it was as if all of that algebraic, foot-note, chain of reaction knowledge got dumped right out my studio apartment window in order to make room for the new knowledge of things,
like what the proper dose of Tylenol is when your weight is 15 pounds.
If these kids needed a class on what the proper protocol is for a Croup cough,
I can teach the heck out of that.
If an education in psychiatry is what they crave, my extensive online research in human behavior for the purpose of diagnosing all of the odd things my husband does will be of very great use.
If these kids need to be schooled in rap music of the 90’s, well they had best hold on to their unsecured belongings
because this place is about to BUMP.
But, friends,
if what is expected of me now in this strange new world is to put on a wide smile at 8am and dive with a joyful heart deep into the sea of math word problems with 11 and 13 year old girls,
someone had better load up the tranq gun because I am about to bolt.
These are not demure girls with clasped hands and ready-to-learn expressions.
This is not Walnut Grove.
These girls will eat your brains if they deem you looked at them funny.
These are girls in the height of pre-teen hormone swings, that ask things like,
“Do the tips of my ears look funny when I do this?”
These are girls who cry actual tears if every single hair will not stay put in their high ponytail.
These are girls who have been marked tardy at school because they needed to finish their weekly “It’s Monday” meltdown in the school parking lot while fanning themselves with a stale waffle they found in the bottom of their backpack.
Now I am supposed to seamlessly switch from child psychologist to tutor?
I don’t think I can do it.
I don’t have those leggings.
But, I tried today.
Honest, I did.
For an hour this morning they worked at the kitchen table while I sipped my coffee, answered questions, and wrote;
But one minute they were doing well and everything seemed like it was on track,
and the very next minute I looked up to find my kitchen in a mushroom cloud,
and them all, somehow, eating homemade mug cakes.
I guess if I have to do it, I have to do it;
Though I am warning you will most likely be with the energy of a 70 year old dried-up substitute whose white board reads:
Day 1: All School Party
Day Every One After That: TBD by Vice Principals Strong Coffee and Mood
This article was written by a guest blogger. The opinions expressed here are those of the writer and do not reflect the opinions of Bob Lacey, Sheri Lynch or the Bob & Sheri show.
Mom Outnumbered
Hi! My name is Kerri Green; Wife to Justin, and mother to four highly entertaining daughters -Alena, Chloe, Tessa, and Paige. I am an artist, a writer, a daycare provider, a lover of people, a believer that there is humor and beauty in all things, and the author of Mom Outnumbered; a blog about real family life, and my observations of it. My goal is to make people laugh, to be there for them when they cry, and most importantly, to let them know that they are not at all alone in this up and down world. I live with my family in Sebastopol California, and I am opening the window into our life. So welcome! Come in. Sit down. Just please don’t mind the mysterious wet spots.
