Starting School

I’m looking around the house wondering why it looks like a bomb went off.  The kids have been in school for most of the week, and I should have had it under control by now.  I don’t.  There is still camping gear in the dining room, leftover from the National Jamboree that all four of the men in this house attended for 10 days at the end of July (I won’t even go into what THAT laundry smelled like), and the kitchen looks as though it has been designated as the official mail center.  Suffice it to say, I can’t get motivated.  My children appear to be suffering from the same thing.

Roo, (Buzzard’s twin) announced to me on Wednesday that he was in fact fully cognizant on Tuesday that he had been assigned homework even though he’d told me there was none.  Buzzard, as duty calls from your twin colluded in this bit of deceit.  Buzzard, however, meets with a tutor on Wednesdays, thus the email I received regarding said English assignment.

“Mom,” Roo says clearly annoyed, “The teacher talked ALL period!  And we had to listen!”  As though this was a most unreasonable request.

I would like to be able to say that I responded with wit, and understanding.  I did not.

“Are you KIDDING ME!!!” I said as we headed back into town after being home for three hours, in which time he could’ve done said homework.  “What are you there for?”

He looked at me, and said, “Alright.  I didn’t work on it yesterday because I thought it was just wrong to be given homework the first day of school, and today I forgot.”

I forgot.  With a homework planner, and the homework board posted on line, you’d think such catastrophies could be avoided.  Unfortunately the only thing being avoided was remembering, something they’ve become very good at.  Meanwhile, no matter how much I stamp my feet and fuss at them, they still spend hours doing homework that should’ve taken 40 minutes.  Right now, it’s Spanish.

I made them both take Spanish, see.  After a torturous year of Latin, I decided it would be easier to deal with Spanish. 

“This is your fault I’m having trouble with Spanish,” one of them says to me.

“My fault?  I think you’re the one who didn’t apply themselves in Latin.”  I respond.

“Yeah.” he says as though getting a C in Latin shouldn’t have precluded him from taking High School Level Latin in 8th grade,  his twin nodding vigorously behind him.  “But now I know how to do Latin.  I don’t know anything about Spanish.”

“Mom’s right,” pipes in my older son, who I made to follow the same plan.  “I didn’t like Spanish at first, but she’s right, it is easier.”

“Shut up and butt out!” Roo says, a deadly glare on his face.

I shrug.  “You are doing Spanish, you can’t change it, and that’s the end of that.”

I get glares.  I get the helpless act.  “I can’t find out what all these flash cards mean,” wails Buzzard, while the answers lay in the open book right in front of him.

I could be wrong, but I was pretty sure they had already learned how to read.

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