Not Smarter Than any Grader

Next week is Phoebe’s first day of fifth grade. I’m nervous because apparently things (read: homework) are going to get very ramped up and I haven’t finished my master’s degree in Math or Philosophy, or Science, so I will again, be unable to assist her. This stuff is going to be hardcore and I guess I’m not feeling very confident because (fill in the blank) is not my strong suit. Maybe if math equations were drawn with pretty colors and tasted like candy, you know if I could LICK the fraction, I might be able to or want to be able to understand it better. History? My version of “history” is remembering at 10am what I accomplished at 9:00am. That is history. Since I had Phoebe, English has become more like my second language. I now speak in movements such as yawning, cutting the crusts off a piece toast I just made for myself because I forgot the toast is FOR ME, not my daughter, closing a lunch box, opening a lunch box, standing with my mouth hanging open with a WTF? expression on my face while my eyes are popping out of my head, because I am a parent of an 11 year-old girl.

At this point, I must address the subject of “Art” and how it is I deal with that. My kid comes home and says she has a project due that involves glue, markers, clothing that she wouldn’t normally wear, cutting, pasting, sewing, etc. I, in turn, pick up my cell phone and call her father to tell him about the project and wish him the best of luck on completing the assignment. We than gather up all her materials, put them in her knapsack, and ship her off to his house. I then reward myself with a nice, big bowl of ice-cream.

However, this is not to say, I have nothing to offer my child. I mean I wasn’t exactly raised by wolves, you know.

Recess, lunch. My kid wants to figure out how to navigate her way around the handball court or end up with a lunch that consists mainly of someone else’s cookies, look no further my darling daughter, mommy’s right here. Re-reading that last sentence makes me sound like I’ve done “time”, so before the rumors start flying, just know that, I have. I was married, remember? High-five.

Wish me luck.

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