I am hiding in my office right now. I have to go face the inevitable in a few minutes, but really, I'd rather put a fork in my eye.
It's the homework. I had no idea when I decided to throw caution to the wind and have all these kids that I would have to help educate them. Don't get me wrong, we'll pay for their college, or at least until we have sold as much blood and kidneys as we can between the two of us. It's the day to day moan-fest called homework time that puts the fear of Jesus in me.When you have a first grader, you kind of expect the tears. The whining. You start to think they'll never be able to count money or understand fractions and you envision a future that has your forty-something child living in your basement. But by the end of elementary school, things somehow start to click. However, the part of their brain that governs "remembering to bring your lunch/lab book/writing assignment home" apparently rots away with the onset of pubescent hormones.
Today, not unlike many others, featured a conversation with one of my daughters when we were far away from her school and nearly home.
What's your homework today?
I have to learn my part for the play. And I have an English sheet.
Great. Do you want me to read you your lines when we get home?
Oh. I didn't bring my script home with me.
Stabbing the eye. Right now. I figure if I'm sufficiently injured, someone else will have to deal with this.