For those who think that homeschoolers lead perfect lives, prepare to have your mind blown.
I’ve mentioned before that I’m incredibly flawed, and that my children aren’t perfection on two feet.
It seems, about once a week or so, there’s a meltdown here.
Princess is the primary culprit.
Today was over math. And spelling.
See, the kids get up, and usually knock their math off well before 9 am. In fact, Wolf usually supervises their math before he leaves for work. They’re doing multiplication, adding, subtracting, and fractions while I’m still desperately trying to get my coffee cup to my mouth without dumping it down the front of myself.
That’s assuming I’m even awake yet. Some mornings, Cubby lets me sleep a bit, and my family knows better than to wake me if both babies are still sleeping. Every moment of sleep is precious, and can save a life.
Namely, theirs, if they wake me.
So. Tazzie finished his math work book for the year last week. I’m giving him a week or two off, before starting the new set.
Yes, I’m a horrible homeschooling mom, and we go all year round. Otherwise, I find that they lose too much over the summer.
Both Middle Minions were watching TV. So, I announced spelling lesson, to be followed by reading.
We did our usual routine. Go over the teaching part, then spelling dictation. Mistakes get copied out five times each.
Princess had a complete meltdown when it came time to correct her mistakes. Turns out, she hadn’t finished her math yet. Reasonably, or so I thought, I pointed out that she’d been watching TV.
Wailing. Crying. Gnashing of teeth.
Still employing reason and logic, I pointed out that it wasn’t that she had to do *extra* work, she just had to finish one and move on to the other.
Complete hysteria ensued.
She ended up in her room for about half an hour, regaining her sanity, while I continued on teaching Tazzie, and wondering if Princess was too young to be experiencing hormonal mood swings.
Eventually she calmed down, and completed her work.
Took her ten minutes. TEN. MINUTES.
I picture her, in the future, on a therapist’s couch, sobbing about how her evil mother made her to math. And spelling.
God help me when she becomes a teenager. Seriously. Because I’m not confident I’ll get through that time without ending up under my desk, curled up in the fetal position, and sobbing to myself.