Mathematics

I just might cry. It's a beautiful, sunny, fall day and my stomach is tied up in knots. I'm perseverating over my middle kid's math grade. He has a C average and I feel like a failure. Presently, I'm indulging in some high-calorie, grease therapy with the consumption of 3 sliders and sweet potato fries.


I'll probably feel worse after I've gobbled them down and I'll just compound my woes. But right now I can't take any responsibility for my future state of mind.

Despite hours and hours of math homework and revision of homework, his latest test score is a 59. What the hell? And what's worse, I know all his errors will be due to carelessness, not checking his work and rushing through the test. With this kid, it's like trying to get to China by running on a treadmill. We might be making progress, but we are getting no where. What if he ends up in an orange jumpsuit some day or sells newspapers on the side of the road? And all because he won't check his work and write neatly. I'll be humiliated and he'll be on government subsidy. And this is the kid who cried when Romney lost the presidential election. He's still not mature enough to realize that his actions don't coincide with his politics.

I know everyone remembers their parents explaining that once we all have children of our own we'll get it. I used to think my mother was so stupid and borderline histrionic when she'd use this as an explanation or a threat. Because, in my infinite 12, 15, 23, 30 year old wisdom I just assumed she didn't know what the heck she was doing and I'd do a far superior job, especially after having had to suffer through all of her inadequacies.

So now here I am doing a shit job ensuring my kid can add and subtract (okay so now I'm being histrionic). I'm not sure what is the most upsetting, his lack of focus or my own wounded pride.

Sometimes I have fantasies of home-schooling. I think I've mentioned this before. But I am quite certain that my children would plot, and quite possibly carry-out, my demise. My intensity and pursuit of perfection would likely cause all three of them to develop various nervous tics.

The other part of this story is that I learned of his grade while stalking his grades on-line. That's the thing about stalking; you always feel dirty and disappointed. The schools and teachers bill it as a good thing, but honestly I think they are just being sadistic. He'll come out of school clueless to the fact that I've been agonizing over his inability to divide 4 digits by one digit without a remainder. And that my internal maternal rating score has plunged to an all-time low. And I'm going to have to resist the urge to make him sit and do math problems on a Friday afternoon. Especially since he probably hasn't even gotten his test back.

Sitting here I realize all this self-loathing is quite indulgent and just a bit ego-centric. So at least while I peck, peck, peck away on my iPhone's teeny-tiny keyboard I am aware that it probably isn't as big of a deal as many other potential real life scenarios that millions of people are living each day. I gotta just take a deep breath and force myself not to threaten Kumon. He's gonna be something awesome some day, because 59 or not, he's already pretty awesome (even if he forgets to show all his steps in long division). Someday he'll be the one wearing the "I'm with stupid" T-shirt and it will be pointing at me because of all my useless worries. This is just a bump in the road, not a mountain to scale. So I'm gonna climb out of my hole of self pity and enjoy this beautiful day and practice a little gratitude. And I didn't even need to consume all 2000 calories to gather perspective.
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Things I am Not

1. Organized
2. A good housewife
3. Skinny enough to fit into my skinny jeans (but I squeeze myself in them anyway)
4. Young
5. Perfect

That last one is the one that always trips me up. My lack of perfection grates on my nerves, usually when I am in the midst of something that isn't going exactly the way I'd envisioned it. For example, in the morning, I set my alarm for 5:45 am therefore I force myself out of the bed at 6:45 am, quietly panicking because I haven't made any lunches or washed any uniforms or clothes. Then I try to rally the troops. In my perfect world scenario, I'd have 3 compliant children who joyfully awake with smiles on their faces and songs in their hearts, brush their teeth, get dressed, pack their backpacks and come to the breakfast table (after having helped prepare breakfast).

This is what actually happens:

I fake calmness and sincerity and go and lovingly wake my children up with a silly song or reminding them of an exciting event planned for the day. I let the dogs out and make a pot of coffee. I stare at the pile of dishes in the sink and curse myself for not taking care of it the night before. I go back in for the second attempt at rousing them, still attempting sweetness, but with a bit more alarm in my voice ("we're going to be late" said in my sing-songiest voice). I go back to the kitchen and set up the lunch making assembly line. About half way through shoving things into eco-unfriendly plastic baggies I look at the clock and it's now 7 am. I've had enough with the nice mommy facade so I start shouting from the kitchen "Get up! We're going to be late!" but I'm still not using my mean voice. I hear nothing from their bedrooms. I unscrew equally eco-unfriendly mini water bottles so they don't spill at the lunch table (common hazard with smallish hands-when attempting to open, they squeeze them and water comes shooting out the top and then the lunch ladies get pissed) and in my mind I sort out who likes cheese sticks and who thinks they are gross, who is embarrassed by Activia yogurt and who likes it (and flavor preference), who wants their apples cut and who doesn't like oranges at school (only at home) and now the clock says 7:05 am and no one has budged, so now I bring on the full-fledged bitch-mommy scream, "Get out of bed! NOW!" with no remaining vestiges of sweetness in my voice. Finally the coffee is ready and I pour myself a cup. By this point the three dogs have been let in and out about 37 different times in various couplings and I've had to yell about seven thousand times to stop barking. Forget feeding them. Finally, they emerge from their bedrooms (the children, not the dogs) one by one and have the audacity to ask if they can take a shower. It's 7:10 am and we have to leave in 15 minutes, so obviously I say...."Fine, but it had better be quick!". At 7:15 am I am banging on the bathroom door yelling at my oldest to get out of the shower and asking my younger two if they really did brush their teeth (who lies about brushing their teeth? How is it an unsavory enough task that you have to lie about it?). Generally at least two of them come out and tell me they can't find various articles of clothes and do I know where they are and have I washed them. I'm almost always vilified for my lack of clothes washing expediency although sometimes the housekeeper gets blamed. Socks are usually the culprit and this is mainly due to the fact that both boys can only wear one specific brand of socks (and not the same between the two). So even if there are 12,000 pairs of socks in their drawers, if they aren't THE socks that they want. Now I've let the dogs out another 32 times and had to listen to their complaints about the lack of kibble in their bowls. My husband then emerges from the bedroom after taking a cold shower because the 3 kids used all the hot water and asks if I have taken in the dry cleaning yet. (That would be a negatory). He lets the dogs out again. It is now 7:25 and lunches are made, kids are mainly clothed (middle kid usually wears the same thing several days in a row, so it makes the clothes picking easy for him. We only have to ask him if he has changed his underwear in the last several days. And he isn't opposed to wearing yesterday's socks) and the process of shoving shit into backpacks takes place. Seventy-five percent of the time there is a forgotten packet of homework that has to be signed and upon rushing to flip through the grades, a 67% is buried within the packet (thus, the reason it was "forgotten") and I'm too anxious to shove them all out the door that don't even care about the grade. I get them out the door but not after one or two of them volley back for a jacket, a forgotten lunch, or tri-board project (the heinous tri-board project, the curse of parents everywhere and a subject all to itself) and I lock the top lock and lean my back against the door and sink to the ground. I've only had to hear I'm a mean mom about 12 times this morning and only seen a pair of eye-rolling 3 times and "Geez!" about 8 times. It's a good morning. The dogs are scratching at the back door to get back in, so I get up and let them in, but not till I wipe the mud off of 12 paws. At last I get to go drink my cup of coffee that is now cold but easily fixed by 30 seconds in the microwave. Amazingly, as soon as I get them out the door, I remember how much I love them and how lucky I am and really this only lasts for a little while.

Why must siblings argue with each other? Why can't everyone in the litter just get along? Why do I sometimes feel like punching my children in the face when I hear them talking ugly amongst themselves. I wonder if this is why some animal species eat their young-because they can't stand the bickering? (Mom and dad hamster look at one another with a look of bewilderment and defeat and shrug their little hamster shoulders and realize the only answer lies within the cannibalization of their own young).
Tonite was one of those nights when I wanted to punch my kids in the face. I would actually never do it, but sometimes the thought brings me so much glee that I feel better instantly. They all wanted me to lie in bed with them (well just the youngest two) and my maternal popularity ratings were soaring tonite hence the rancor between siblings. Per one's description of the other my daughter is the bride of Chucky and my son is just an asshole. So the big love fest never took place. Instead I had the pleasure of listening to a laundry list of why the other was unworthy of love.
I must be the worst mother on the planet or at least on my block because I'm pretty sure all the experts would advise against you telling your children, "You take the joy out of motherhood." Or explaining to your 10 year old son why he can't act like an asshole (yes I did use those words). Still need to tell the 9 year old girl that she isn't winning any congeniality contests among her brothers.
Wow, being a referee in real life Lord of the Flies is hazardous. It's not a spectator sport. Most days are ok but some days you feel violated.
I got to help my mother pick out a Medicare plan today. There is a lot of redundancy in the plans and the explanations yet it is still a very baffling process. Honestly, she could have done it on her own but now I get why you might want to think it through with someone else. It's like reading the fine print on a product sweepstakes entry form; exceptions may apply. I think they should dumb it down to a glossy menu with pictorial choices, kind of like an IHOP menu. And things like Part B, prescription drug plans and gap policies would be your supersize value meals.
All is quiet here except for some snoring so gonna go take advantage of the stillness!
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Location:Supersize