Houston, We Have a Problem

After enduing a day that felt like a top-speed run in a hamster wheel, I arrived home with fond thoughts of a glass of wine, and maybe a round of mind-numbing video games with the boys. What I got was my oldest heathen in dire need of help with his science homework. One big, fat sigh later, I sat down to help him with the naïve confidence that we could finish up that homework in five minutes or less. The question he couldn’t figure out was how to calculate his current age on each planet in our solar system, given how many days that it takes each planet to rotate around the sun.

Thirty seconds later, my head exploded, and I fled into the kitchen with a sincere, “wait until your dad gets home…he’ll help you.” I had more important things to do…like find the corkscrew.

Yes, I was bested by my third-grader’s homework. I’ll admit it. I pawned that job off on my poor husband before his behind could even clear the door.

Late last night, I got a text from another mom in my son’s class. Because our jobs intersect quite often, we have occasion to text about work now and then.

The test simply read: “I hate third grade.”

I texted back: “Science?”

To which she replies: “Yep.”

It’s nice to know I’m not alone. Shame stings a whole lot less when it’s shared.

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