“If there were no schools to take the children away from home part of the time, the insane asylums would be filled with mothers.” ~Edgar W. Howe
I don’t know how other moms do homeschooling. I don’t. I would murder my children. I was thinking last night that centuries ago mothers did teach everything to their children at home, and then it dawned on me. That was the reason so few of the children reached to adulthood. It wasn’t the plague; it was moms being frustrated by ungrateful, whinny, temper-tantrum-throwing, not-listening, willful, disobedient children. Or maybe it’s just my child. Or maybe it’s me. I’m fine with it being me.
Reasons I can’t homeschool my children:
- I don’t have the patience to deal with a child who doesn’t want to learn.
- If I can’t teach them one way, I can’t figure out any other way.
- I find myself using stupid threats, like feeding him to the wolves.
- I can’t make my child understand that the sooner he does it, the sooner he gets to play.
- Did I mention I don’t have the patience?
- I want to throw temper tantrums with him.
- It turns out I have a violent side that only rises after fifteen minutes of trying to get a child to hold a crayon the correct way. (Don’t worry; I only wish to hurl the crayon across the house.)
- I would have to get on some serious medication. Or start drinking. And I’m pregnant.
- I have mood swings.
- I don’t have the patience!
I guess this is the part where I admit I had to force Evan to do a school project that he decided not to do at school. (Point for it being my son’s issue.) As the teacher knew I’m a concerned parent, due to the weekly meetings I have with her and the time I asked for all his work when he was out for a week, she gave me the project. It was cut out a man shape to glue into a folded paper to be a jack-in-the-box. Simple enough, right? Insert hysteric laughter.
A half an hour of Evan saying he can’t, Evan going to a whining room, Evan going to a crying room, my dad walking out of the house, my mom trying her hand at it, my mom telling me to send him to time out, my threats that he’ll be there until he is done or until he dies whichever comes first, Evan FINALLY cut out the damn man figure. Then it was twenty minutes over how he couldn’t make a face, he couldn’t make a smile, he couldn’t make eyes, the markers weren’t working, it’s just not right, I don’t want to do it. I finally was able to let him glue it in the “box.” Then I forced him to finish his “J” paper. The horrors of being a four-year-old preschooler. After an hour, he was free to run around, and I had the desperate desire for a shot of vodka.
I will happily PAY someone to teach my child.