Showing posts with label homework. Show all posts
Showing posts with label homework. Show all posts

8/07/2008

Shhhh....Do Not Disturb. Homework is in Session

I have been doing homework for the past four years. Imagine that. A middle-aged working mother, almost a decade removed from any form of regimentalized education, except whatever she gets by way of her son.

Yep. Woog and I have been doing homework for the last four years he's been in school. I can't literally say that it's been an educating experience for me, being as all I've learned in kindergarten, I'm learning all over again. Literally. Letter by letter. Word by word. Color by color. Numer by number.


Sometimes I get so hung up about it, I recite it in my sleep. That's what going back to doing homework at the nursery and kindergarten level does to you.

I am gratified, however, by how much of an eye-opener it has been. Guiding my son in doing his nightly homework has woken me up to several very relevant facts about life, such as:

1.) You cannot expect a pre-schooler to understand everything you are explaining to him in a dumbed-down adult sort of way. You have to spell it out, show-and-tell it, present a hundred and one examples, draw it, dance, and perform in mini theater presentations, for him to get what you are talking about.

2.) A pre-schooler has the attention span of a gnat.

3.) You may think, when you get started, that you are the most patient person in the world. You are dead wrong.

4.) As an adult adept at finding reasons to avoid attending prayer/community gatherings, parties, PTA meetings, or a neighbor's potluck fundraiser, you deem yourself a veritable expert at forming the most creative and believable excuses. You'll lose hands-down to a four-year-old.

5.) Have snacks on hand. A pre-schooler claiming to be too full to finish his squash soup at dinner will get voraciously hungry during homework time 10 minutes later.

6.) A pre-schooler has the attention span of a gnat. Divided by two.

7.) Little boys are always eager to learn, as long as it involves Pokemon, Battle B-daman and the Power Rangers.

8.) During subject review, expect memory loss 90% of the time.

9.) A tantrum thrown on study night in the middle of exam week will give you sleepless nights about your ability to parent effectively.

10.) They forgive you every time. Even if you are the wicked witch of the west every weeknight at homework hour.

Be all that as it may, I feel Woog and I have found a steady, comfortable rhythm each night when we open our books after dinner. I look at homework as a salvation of sorts, a time for us to bond - argue, hug, talk, shout, kiss and make up, and ultimately learn – in a routine that has become a part of our mother-and-son life for the last four years.

Incidentally, I've discovered something else in the last couple of nights. Something I should have implemented long ago, dumb backward mother that I am. This week is exam week and instead of making mock exam reviewers for him to answer on the back of old office scratchpaper, I decided to do it on MS Word.

It basically involved click-and-drag test questions where he positioned the correct picture under it's corresponding column, underlining the correct answer, and drawing lines to connect pairs. I made such judicious use of clip-art and colorful drawing tools that he was reluctant to stop even after our review was over. It's been such a success for the last two nights, I think I just might have a winning formula here.

Instead of having a son who goes and does his homework because its a necessary evil, he might end up an enthusiastic little boy looking forward to homework hour each night. Which makes me mighty excited and more than a little breathless at the possibilities.

You do learn something new everyday.

7/11/2008

Homeworkus Interuptus and Other Tales of Regurgitation

“But Mooooooo-oom, I want to do my homework,” my son whined.

Woog was clearly losing it.

After having dawdled over dinner, television and his bath, he showed up for our homework date at a time when some other person would have left the rendezvous point in frustration and vowed never to go out with him again.


But as his date was his mother, clearly she had no choice in the matter.

It started out innocuously enough with some drills writing Chinese number characters while he chanted “eee...er...san...sz..ooo...lio...” to the tune of his pencil scratching on the page. By the time we got to identifying the different rooms of a house in Filipino, he was picking chunks off his eraser with a fingernail, and I had to remind him to pay attention.

I finally called it a night when he rubbed off his umpteenth mistake from the “write the members of the family” crossword puzzle. The printed squares of his workbook were looking decidedly faint, and he was peering at me irritably, expecting me to provide him with the answers. The clock had struck the hour of nine. “Bedtime, Woog.”

“But Moooooo-ooom....!”

Upstairs, Eli was coughing up the contents of his milk bottle. His throat had a tickle, and he was scratching it vigorously with violent tremors of his glottis (hack! hack! haaaa-aaack!), in the process, upchucking everything else from deep down under. Twice now that evening.

I rushed upstairs, Woog still whining at my heels.

The sour stench hit us before we even took one step inside the room. One putrid puddle lay glistening at the foot of the electric fan, the other was messily sprawled too close to Eli's bed. Atch was cursing as he frantically scrubbed down two pillows with wet wipes. Meanwhile, Eli's rejected milky diet was slowly seeping down into the floorboards.

The owner of said lactose expulsion was sitting naked on our bed, newly divested of his soiled 'jamies. “Deeenk,” he said, “deeeenk....miiik.”

“Drink milk! Drink milk!” Atch glared in the direction of the baby, “I told you not to finish that second bottle! Now look what happened?!”

Eli burst into tears.

“Mooooooo-ooom! I want to do my homework!”

This was not exactly the best night in our lives. We were tired, cranky and vomitty. We were all in need of a rest. I sent Woog downstairs, took the wailing baby in my arms, gave him a drink of water and wiped the rest of the sour dampness from him.

Atch cleaned the floor with a scowl on his face. There was no help for it. The room was going to stink of gastric juices and curdled baby formula for the rest of the night.

“Deeeenk miiiik.” Eli ventured once more.

Downstairs, I told Woog in as calm a voice that I could muster that he needed to go to bed.

“Whyyyyyyyy?” (which came out sounding like waaaaaah-iiiiiii)

“Why?” I asked him back, taking deep breaths and buying myself some time.

Shamefaced, he acknowledged his tardiness and the lateness of the hour, but followed it up with, “so I won't do homework again. Ever.”

“Ok then, you might as well stop going to school tomorrow, too.”

“Whyyyyyyyy?” he started over in a grating wail, and I found myself in danger of not only losing my patience, but regressing to my son's level as well.

“I'm mad.” Woog gritted out, knuckling his eyes and trying to still his quivering mouth.

“Which is why you have to go to bed before both of us really lose our tempers. Now, please.”

He ran upstairs, pausing to give me a tearfully resentful glance before slamming his door behind him. Faintly, I heard the bolt turning in its lock.

Nicely handled. What a swell mommy you are.

Atch came down, looking all of his forty years. Poor Atch. Haggard from a two-hour drive out of town, just gulped down his dinner, only to come face to face with a toddler playing the title role from The Exorcist. And with a wife straight out the pages of Mommy Dearest.

Some days I wonder if we'll ever get this right.