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I never had much use for homework. Fortunately, I was able to soak up enough information in class, that my lack of ambition only tripped me up occasionally. I did have to take Algebra I twice, and Geometry was much more interesting the second time around. You will notice a pattern…

My parents never queried me on my work habits, preferring, instead, to remain oblivious as to how the grades were accomplished. All of my book reports, and class projects, were completed without their assistance, or comment. Our job, as children, was to attend school and make the grades. Theirs was to write checks and take a turn in the carpool line.

Much to my chagrin, things had changed by the time I had children.

My second child has a mild learning disability which affects reading comprehension. He is also male. This is a formula for disaster.

We were fortunate to find a tutor who was using her experience as fodder for her thesis, and thus worked gratis. Every morning, an hour before school started, our footsteps echoed against industrial tiles and concrete walls as we stumbled in. And, every evening, after the dinner dishes were done, he would pick up his flash cards as I laced up my sneakers, and we would walk. I never thought to measure the actual distance, but I know we logged many miles, walking in circles around our block, as he called out the answers while burning off his “boy” energy. As we tired, we turned, in tandem, into our drive and slumped into a wooden swing strung between two sturdy oaks. As I reclined against the arm-rest, he pumped his legs in time to his responses. This is how we made it through phonics, and the second grade.

Fast forward, over a decade. I have moved my family from a sleepy country town to a burgeoning, metropolitan suburb in hopes for the very best in opportunities, and education, for my youngest son. The curriculum is demanding, and those long, circular walks now seem like a walk in the park.

In first grade, at the age of five, he was directed to construct a musical instrument. I pored over online documents in search of the simplest example, in hopes of carrying on my parents’ tradition of limited participation. I finally settled on a percussion instrument of Native American heritage, which required hours of winding yarn around 2 sticks discarded by the towering pines in our backyard. My son wound for about 30 minutes before restlessness overcame him, and his pudgy, 5 year-old hands could do no more. The rest was up to me. The result was a haphazardly wrapped trapezoid which, when rubbed between 2 hands, made an occasional clicking sound.

Dressed in my suburban mother costume, I placed the carefully constructed, delicately woven, instrument in the bottom of a large box for safe-keeping, before sitting it in the backseat of the car. The special care we had taken with his hair, forced my son to hold his neck straight, arched, and away from the back of the seat, in hopes that it would remain in place. We were on our way to the presentation of the instruments.

Reluctantly handing him the box, we parted as he made his way, through a throng of students, to his classroom, and I turned towards the cafeteria, and the display area. As I walked among the tables, my heart skipped a beat as I realized my mistake. With one manicured hand placed over my mouth, I read the history of the mandolin before inspecting the carefully carved wood for juvenile imperfections. There were none.

At the next display, I tested the tautness of animal skins stretched across wooden tom-toms, and found no failing.

The next velvet draped table, featured eight, expensively etched, crystal glasses holding carefully measured amounts of variously colored liquid. A silver-handled, rubber mallet rested, luxuriantly, next to each one. Display boards, featuring computer generated graphics, blocked my view of the next table.

So…you wanna play hardball….

By fourth grade, I had adopted a new strategy. When the teacher assigned a report on The Revolutionary War, in which the student was to dress the part, I eagerly anticipated our role assignment. Thanks to Ebay, my son channeled Samuel Adams resplendently dressed in period costume, complete with powdered wig. As he traversed the hallways, no teacher was immune to his charm. It didn’t matter that he left out most of a paragraph of his report, as he stumbled over his presentation in true nine-year-old form. He dressed the part, and for that, he garnered a large, red, “A”.

Our next assignment was a scientific experiment involving, of all things, earthworms. Harking back to my upbringing, I sent my ten-year-old outside into the gardens with a shovel and pail. Southern drought had apparently chased the slimy creatures further underground, forcing my use of a larger shovel. We were expected to test ten. We settled for eight.

Camera at the ready, I set up shots of my son among carefully placed worms, rich, brown dirt, and apple pieces.

After all of the data was collected, my son watched as I arranged photographs amongst cleverly engineered graphics on a display board. I would settle for nothing less than another “A”!

Fast forward, again, to today. I am sitting in rush-hour traffic, which due to our herculean, hurricane-contrived gas shortage, is decidedly lighter than it was one month ago, and my cell-phone rings.

“Mom?”

“Yes, honey?”

“I’m working on mean, median, and mode. I added the numbers and divided, but what do I do with the remainder?”

Silence.

“I called this kid I know, who’s in honor’s math, and he said I should make the remainder a fraction. Is that what I do, Mom? Is that right?”

Continued silence.

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

I can still see her face, curtained by God-given, red hair. Tall, and pale, she stood before the class and gestured her freckled arm towards the gibberish she scrawled across the chalkboard.

I probably should have paid more attention…

© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll