My darling, darling 7-year old daughter who I love so so deeply has been in a place of constant sorrow when it comes to homework lately. Wailing, whining, groaning, buckets of tears, throwing the head back. On Monday, it was because I had suggested she try something a bit more challenging for her week’s assignment - BUT I DON'T WANT TO READ A CHAPTER BOOK! I'D RATHER READ A PICTURE BOOK! WHY DO I HAVE TO READ A CHAPTER BOOOOOOOOOOK?!? Ear-shattering shrieks, in the car, mind you. And the despair lasted all the way home, into the dining room, and ultimately up to her bedroom where we sent her to decompress before dinner. Note, please, I did not say she had to do anything; my last words, repeated robotically so I didn't become a screeching harpy mom, were "It is your choice." I swear on a stack of fricking picture books.
Tonight the trauma is that if she does the Wednesday assignment of "Retelling" the chapter (oh martyrdom) that she just read, she will have to do it again at school because she is reading the same book there. WAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH, MOOOOOMMMMMMM, IT'S TOOOO HARRRRRRRRRRRD!
But wait now. Silence. I glance surreptitiously toward the table. There is a calm girl, writing writing, breathing normally, no sobbing. And then – “I’m going to call my friend to invite her to church on Sunday.” Wary Mom with bright happy voice: “Sooo. All finished with homework then?” “The Retelling? Uh, yeah.” There is a tinge of ‘Duh, why wouldn’t I be?’ in the tone.
Please, dear God, please let the teen years be a breeze of goodness & light. I don’t think I can handle the rollercoaster of sullenness to cheerfulness to fury to joyful joy for an entire decade. And be sane.
