Dispatch #40: On Schoolwork

Rules v. Values

Find me at 4:15 pm on a weekday, when I’ve picked up my kids and brought them home. Backpacks to clean out, dirty hands to wash, the usual scavenging for snacks. I try to let the kids get settled, let them pet the dog, eat some chips, but I’m already singing my familiar weekday refrain.

Homework time! What’s your homework? Get out your homework!

It’s my song and I can’t stop singing it.

*

Parenting shines a hot white light on what you can’t help but care about. For me, one of those things is academic achievement.

It feels, well, uncool to admit this. I want to be the chill mother who doesn’t care about grades or a teacher’s opinion, as long as my kids are happy. But I do care. In my soul, I’m a Lisa Simpson type who loves to learn and gets off on getting an “A.”

Sorry, kids, Lisa Simpson is your mom.

My children have no chores beyond picking up after themselves and carrying their plates to the counter after dinner. Their essential job right now—the only real labor that Patrick and I expect of them—is scholarly. (He, too, is a Lisa S. type.) We don’t care if they make their beds, as long as they do well in school.

Because homework is the only part of my children’s academic lives that I’m able to directly witness, it’s where my desires and high expectations crash into their own individual ways of being. It’s getting messy.

*

When I first came across the famous quote by screenwriter Lawrence Kazdan, “Being a writer is like having homework for the rest of your life,” I laughed in recognition.

My work life feels a little like being a college student without any actual classes to attend. I’m reading and writing all the time, and meeting deadlines that are mostly self-imposed. In fact, this very newsletter is one of my weekly assignments—Look at me, doing my homework!

It’s the perfect job for me.

It’s not that I necessarily enjoyed homework as a student, but I excelled at it, and I definitely relished completing it. I loved school—I mean, truly, I love to learn, I am a nerd— and I see now that I was built for the system. I’m smart, sure, but that’s less important than other factors. I’m neurotypical, for one. I don’t have a learning disability. Although there is a space cadet side to me (just ask my mom how many sweatshirts I lost in elementary school), I don’t have executive functioning challenges, and I don’t struggle with attention issues. I also enjoy completing tasks: I’ve never seen a to-do list I couldn’t tackle.

I’m also driven, and, from the beginning, I took pride in being a good student. I’m extroverted, too, which made it easy to exist in a classroom environment among many different people. For someone like me, there’s nothing easier than getting that sweet participation grade.

Where did these preferences and gifts come from? Was it simply a natural tendency? I read at a very young age, and I was outgoing. My mother sent me to preschool a year ahead of schedule because I demanded it; I still remember watching my sister Heidi fill out some school worksheets with envy. I wanted that life for myself.

My success in school is probably also about family dynamics. My oldest sister Lauren hated school, found it boring. She was the rebellious one. In elementary school, my middle sister Heidi was sensitive, and she struggled academically. She was the pretty one. I was the one who took to school the easiest, and who worked the hardest and got the best grades. I was the smart one—or at least the studious one. This gave me a useful role, offered me an identity no one else could claim. (One could argue that our half-sister and half-brother eventually showed up to complicate this picture, but that’s a topic for another day…)

Whatever my family dynamic, the simple fact is that a grade was a currency I valued. An “A” meant something: about my work, and about me, beyond my home life.

It’s pathetic to admit this, but here it goes: I remain proud of winning my class’s multiplication race in 4th grade. I am no math whiz but you bet your ass I studied for that fateful sprint until my brain melted. I still remember the awe I felt when I was the first to finish. It was as if I hadn’t been aware of my own skill, my own power, until that moment. It was meaningless in the scheme of things, and yet to this day I can conjure the thrill of the achievement.

Who wouldn’t want to feel that?

*

Leave it to motherhood to shake this little belief system of mine, to force me to wrestle with it on a nearly daily basis.

My oldest child, Bean, is thirteen and in the eighth grade, and he does not feel the same way about academic success as I do. You know it kills me. This is a kid whose intellect could power an entire city, and yet he does not care if a teacher knows it.

Like me, Bean is outgoing. Unlike me, he is neurodivergent. The therapist who assessed him at age eight said he had the strongest vocabulary of any child she’d ever tested. (I did not even try my hide my intense pride! I needed this news on a plaque!) The therapist also explained that his kind of brain develops unevenly, which explained why, in preschool, he could discuss complex concepts with ease, but couldn’t climb a playground ladder, or sit still at circle time. He couldn’t hold a crayon. Asynchronous development, she called it. Twice exceptional.

This is the kind of brain that can’t focus on stuff he doesn’t care about (though he doesn’t have ADHD—he didn’t quite qualify for that diagnosis). This is the kind of brain that causes him to knock into stuff as he’s walking. The kind of brain with a hopeless case of that-important-paper-I-need-is-crumpled-at-the-bottom-of-my-backpack.

It’s also the kind of brain that can grasp complex subjects, that possesses a prodigious memory, a sharp wit, a capacious imagination.

*

I vividly remember when the therapist told me and Patrick that Bean was gifted, and reminded us that “gifted” didn’t mean that our kid was super smart—or not only that. It meant, differently wired. Special needs.

I swear to god, when she pointed out his specific gifted profile she said, “This kind of gifted child is very frustrating. A pain in the ass.”

Okay maybe she didn’t say “a pain in the ass” but she implied it.

Sometimes I ask Bean what a teacher said about an assignment, and he’ll say something like, “I have no idea,” as if only his body was in class, his mind having floated somewhere far across the sea.

And then he’ll go back to walloping his brother with the sword he built out of paper.

To him, a grade is just a letter.

From the beginning, Bean and I have been locked in a battle. Me, exerting my authority and expectations as a Lisa Simpson type and him, pushing back, reminding me that he’s different from me.

*

In preschool, on his teachers’ recommendation, I took Bean to occupational therapy to improve both his fine and gross motor skills. He loved OT.

One of the skills Bean couldn’t master before he went to OT was that holding a crayon thing. He was nearly five and he couldn’t draw a line or circle, let alone write a letter.

The OT assigned us homework to practice the correct way to hold a writing implement: a few pages every week from a workbook dedicated to mastering basic shapes, and then, following specific steps, making letters and numbers. The workbook was called Handwriting Without Tears.

Spoiler alert: There were tears.

I can remember forcing Bean to do these pages despite his hatred of them. He struggled. I struggled. I wanted so badly for him to learn this skill, and I couldn’t let it go, even when he was spent. I didn’t allow him to give up. I always pushed him too hard.

Why do I always push too hard?

A shame memory: During this time, I forced Bean to write his name on valentines for all of his classmates. It would be great practice, I said. It took days, and he hated it, and he resisted, and I withheld TV or whatever to get him to finish the task. I thought this was what was required, that this is what the teachers had instructed.

When another mom told me, later, “Oh I just wrote Hannah’s name for her! They’re only four years old, after all!” I felt like shit. Why had I been hung up on this? Why hadn’t I just written his name for him? What lesson was I trying to impart?

*

But there’s also this: Bean, ultimately, mastered these writing skills. Intervention was necessary—though, perhaps, not by me, his hard-to-please mother. Either way, he learned to hold a pencil and write, and he ended up loving to draw, and he still draws insanely cool shit to this day. I’m glad he showed up to kindergarten with this skill in the bag.

(Never mind that he spent a lot of time in that classroom’s little antechamber, sitting on a desk chair, spinning round and round and round, because he was being disruptive to the group.)

*

What is a rule and what is a value? My friend Tali put this question to herself a few years ago when trying to decide how much freedom to give her daughter in picking out her clothes. I love this question, and I ask it of myself a lot. A rule keeps the ship afloat, keeps you sane, but it isn’t inviolable. My kids aren’t allowed to curse, for instance, but that’s just a rule because, in the end, I simply don’t want them dropping F-bombs in the wrong environment; otherwise I do not care. Going to bed on time—that’s also a rule. I want them to develop good sleep habits, but I don’t protect their bedtime against what I deem to be other important things: reading, watching a great movie, seeing a friend, having an impromptu dance party.

I’d argue that my stance against smart phones is a value, not a rule. Also, reading is a value, not a rule: it’s a skill and passion Patrick and I want to cultivate in our children. We both love to read. We read to our kids, and procure books for them, and our kids are expected to read regularly because it takes practice to make it a habit, if not a passion, an obsession. I honestly can’t imagine a fulfilling life that doesn’t include books and so our entire household bends to this point of view.

And education—that’s a value too. We do well in school because it’s a responsibility and a privilege to be a student. There is no other option.

*

Bean has done well in school because it’s expected of him and because I have helped him manage his various tasks. You better believe he experienced zero learning loss during COVID! Not on my watch!

In second grade, I fought to get Bean an 504 educational plan so that his teachers understood his learning differences and offered him certain accommodations. I got him into a gifted program. All through elementary school, I kept a close eye on his work.

I have always helicoptered over his homework. Sometimes for good reason; work that should have taken fifteen minutes took an hour. You have no idea how many times in my life I’ve said (yelled): “Just SIT down and DO your WORK!”

In seventh grade, when Bean moved to junior high, I kept even closer tabs. My child who recently washed his hair with dog shampoo by accident was about to have EIGHT classes?! How would he survive?

LAUSD uses a software called Schoology, which shows you every in-class and out-of-class assignment for each class. Wooh boy, if Lisa Simpson got her nerdy little hands on this software!

Last year, Bean and I had a joke that Schoology was my Instagram because I checked it so often.

It was like I was the one taking his classes. I knew what was due and when, and for how many points. I checked everything he turned in; if he tried to submit something really lazy, I’d make him do it over. For Spanish, I helped him study for every test—dios mio how I drilled that kid on his vocabulario! I never did his work for him, but I did make sure he got his work done and that it was done well.

I am cringing as I type this. I knew I was too involved, and yet, another part of me wanted to provide this support. I couldn’t not provide it. My particular brain chemistry comes with a shimmer of anxiety, and I brought that anxiety to my child’s school performance.

It’s true that it was too much. It’s also true that my son’s confidence grew. When he made honor roll, he was proud.

*

This year, I knew I had to let go a little. It was time for him to fly on his own. If he failed, I had to let him. It’s not like I’m going to college with him.

(If only! One of my recurring dreams is that I’m back at Oberlin, reading a course catalogue. It’s not not an erotic dream.)

I also thought: he’s ready. In seventh grade, he had a generally good handle on what was happening in every class, even the ones he disliked. And I saw that when he was interested in a subject, he didn’t need me at all. In history, he aced every test without studying assistance from me. In English, he prepared for weeks for a mock trial, serving as lead defense attorney for the captain of the Titanic with next level dedication. He was writing notes, and doing research on steel bolts or whatever, and taking calls from his legal team on strategy at like 9:00 at night. He asked Patrick to buy him a suit for the trial.

When he lost—unfairly, even the teacher admitted!—he cried. My heart broke for him, but I was also excited because I saw him blossoming. He cared! I saw the boy with the gigantic, special brain coming into his own.

So when the school year began, he and I agreed things would be different. I would only look at Schoology with his permission, or on Fridays, when I got the email for parents with the week in review assignment tallies. It was up to him to stay on top of his work.

At first, it went okay. He needed help in math, but it was mostly that he didn’t understand the concepts and hated the teacher, and, anyway, explaining math is Patrick’s job. After getting a 60/100 on his first test, Bean had to start reviewing all homework and go over the concepts with Patrick. Bean’s grade is improving, despite his absolute loathing for the teacher.

With the other classes, things seemed okay. If I got too overbearing, asking about assignments, Bean would get upset and I’d have to step back and say something like, “Sorry, I’m trying.”

I honestly didn’t know what exactly was going on in his classes, and I felt proud of that.

(Besides, I was too busy drilling Ginger on her times tables!)

*

If I had written this piece last month, this would be a good ending, offering a nice, neat resolution. Mother steps back and her son finds his footing.

But because this newsletter is more a living document than a series of essays with clear resolutions, we’re in a different, messier place.

Ah, motherhood.

Last Friday, I discovered that Dixon had about five zeroes in English class—all assignments he just…didn’t do. Then, we discovered five more zeroes—in Science class. Again, homework that he…blew off?

I nearly lost my damn mind at this news. For weeks, Dixon has had hardly any homework. “I already checked Schoology!” he’d cry before going into his room to be a slug. Meanwhile, his third grade sister had far more work to finish.

(Cut to me, barking at her: “What’s seven times eight?”)

I was angry. Since school started, I’d been telling Bean that there was only one way we could change our fraught school dynamic: I’d let go of the wheel…and he would show me that he was a good driver.

But now the car was headed for a ditch!

Call me a square, but failing to turn in an assignment is disrespectful to the teacher who does not get paid enough to deal with your bullshit.

I cannot fathom how Dixon doesn’t know what is due, and when. As his parent, I am trying my best to see the world as he does, to try to understand what it’s like to be him, in his brain. It’s hard. I can’t decide if he’s fucking with me, just blowing me off, or if he honestly does not know what’s happening in class.

What’s worse: that he’s lying, or that he’s totally lost?

Friday, we got into a big fight. He was making banana bread and I said we needed to email his English teacher RIGHT AWAY to find out about these assignments. He was like, “I’m baking! This is not a big deal.” He was being really rude to me. He refused to write the teacher, and said he didn’t know how he’d missed these assignments. I was like, “How can you not know?” He had no reply.

I said he was going to do the assignments THAT NIGHT, before any screens or being a slug. They were already weeks late!

Ooh boy, he didn’t like that. He began screaming in my face. Patrick was trying to lower the temperature. The dog got agitated and Mickey was saying, “Mommy! Mommy!” all scared, and Ginger was coloring like la la la this family dysfunction isn’t happening.

I left the room. I could hear Patrick talking to Bean in the kitchen, trying to explain why I was so mad, telling him it wasn’t cool to scream in anyone’s face, to find out why he was so full of rage.

About twenty minutes later, Bean came into the room. He was calm.

He apologized for his temper. He said he doesn’t like how I deliver information. How I nag. How I repeat something again and again in a specific tone.

I apologized. I really am so annoying. I told him my anxiety makes me ask the same questions, makes me need resolution immediately. That’s not great for him or me.

But then I said, "You said you wanted me less involved. You told me you were going to handle your class assignments. You didn’t handle them.”

He said he’d been wrong That he needed my help. That he wanted it.

Does he?

I know I can’t go back to how I was last year, not in the same way. I can’t help as much I want to—as much as I feel compelled to. It’s too weird. Otherwise, I’ll be exhorting over those preschool valentines forever. The same pattern, again and again.

“I have to let go,” I said.

*

Families are so strange, aren’t they?

*

That Friday, Bean did two of his missing English assignments before becoming a slug. The banana bread turned out incredible. He spent much of Saturday finishing the rest of his English work. He wanted to hang with friends on Sunday so he chose to get other assignments done on Saturday too, so that he would have more time the next day. That was his call.

I wrote to the Science teacher, asking her for clarity on where my child can check the upcoming homework—he still couldn’t find them. I wrote to the English teacher, asking for a quick meeting to talk about how lost Bean was. His public school teachers are amazing—they (unlike me) understand alternative learners, practice mastery grading, are invested in learning outcomes.

I’m trying not to, but I’m already slipping back to my old habits. I even checked Schoology once while writing this!

(He got an A on a history quiz, guys.)

How can I loosen my school grip without Bean missing every other assignment? How can he feel empowered to do his work—and take his nagging mom out of the equation?

Again, doing your schoolwork is a value in our house, not a rule. I can’t throw my hands up and say, Fine, whatever. It’s your life. Not yet. Not for this.

It’s a problem I’m still trying to untangle. We’re reaching for a middle ground.

*

In the meantime, Ginger gets home, opens her school agenda, and gets right down to business. She is incredibly competitive with the boy who sits next to her. He grades her math homework and she hates if he finds an error.

Homework with pasta

Mickey’s kindergarten homework is optional so we don’t do it. That feels fine.

However, he does have to complete his Mommy Homework: reading four pages from a BOB book a few times a week. It takes 2 minutes.

For that, I give him three gummy bears.

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