My day yesterday was full. I accomplished a lot more than I thought I could on many fronts. After dinner, I settled my behind into the comfy chair to knit and watch violent murder mysteries on TV only to be attacked by T.R. and the math book.
The thing was, he didn’t need my help to understand the problems. He said he couldn’t concentrate. In my position of Meanest Mom in the Universe, I have to point out many unpleasant facts, including this one: I cannot concentrate for anyone else. However, through long training and semi-divine intervention, I have acquired some skills that could come to the rescue. I pointed out, in a slightly less patient way than I might have if I hadn’t just got all comfy and settled in for relaxation, that this was a perfect opportunity for T.R. to use his timer. He could manage to concentrate for five minutes, and then another five, and by then he’d probably be done.
It is a good thing that I don’t know T.R.’s math teacher personally and that he does not read my blog because this is exactly the kind of thing that might give him apoplexy (Isn’t that a good word? Sounds much scarier than a stroke.). T.R. rejoined that he’d just use one of his free homework passes.
That would be using the time-bomb method of homework management, instead.
So I remind myself: It is NOT my homework. It is not MY homework. It is NOT my homework. But GRRR.