Dear Elli,
I try to be a nice mom. Really, I do. I try to be patient and understanding and nurturing and wonderful. But your homework is KILLING me. Seriously. I'm dying inside.
You have homework three nights per week, and a fourth night is spent studying for your weekly spelling test. You're SIX freaking years old! This is not that helpful for you. It's absolute torture for me, though. I'm convinced that the sole purpose of first grade is to terrorize parents.
Here's how tonight's math homework went:
You had a double-sided worksheet with subtraction problems.
Me: Okay! We've got subtraction tonight! Let's count backward! How fun! This one is 16-3, so say in your head "15, 14, 13!" See, the answer is 13! (I also demonstrated with my fingers while counting backward.)
You: No, Mom. You have to use a number line and "hop" backwards with your pencil. The number line needs to be right in front of me so I can "hop" properly.
Me: But we don't have a number line, so we can use an imaginary number line in our brains to solve the problem. That's the same as counting backward.
You: No. We need a number line. My teacher says we need to use a number line.
Me: That's great, but there are other ways to solve these problems. You see, I'm pretty smart, too. And we don't have a number line right now.
....So then you spent twenty minutes making a number line. And you had to write "Math" at the top of your number line and then color it vividly with markers before you would even consider using it. Mind you, we had not even started your actual homework yet.
Let's begin again, post number line construction:
Me: Okay, let's begin.
You: But the cats are SO CUTE! I have to pet the cats. And I'm so thirsty that I MUST have a drink. And I'm so tired I need a break now.
This nonsense went on for another ten minutes, with you mocking my desperate attempts to get you to focus on your math homework.
Finally, I'd had enough. I raised my hand slowly over my head, glared at you with the most psychotic look I could muster, and slammed my hand on the table with a brute force that only a lunatic mother can muster. It was super loud. Immediately after impact, I said, "Do. Your. Homework. NOW!".
It really freaking hurt my hand. It got all tingly, and then I couldn't even feel it at all. It's still red, actually. But guess what?
Your math homework is done.
You finished it.
At 8PM.
I'm drinking beer now.
You're repeatedly throwing a wet washcloth at the ceiling from the bathtub and I don't give a single shit.
Homework has murdered my soul.
I love you.
Mom
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