If Only SpongeBob Were My Child's Teacher

"Ooh, third grade, " a friend says to me. "Tough year."
"At least you have a good teacher," another mom chimes in.
Her words should have comforted me except for one small problem... my son HATES his teacher.

He greets me on the school steps every afternoon upset, worn out. He's boiling over with pent-up rage that seeps out steadily, punctuating our walks home with whines, demands, and impotent punches at the air.
After a snack and some outside play he calms down but soon it's time to start homework ... and in our family dictionary the definition for homework is: NIGHTMARE. I cannot think of anything short of painful medical procedures or pulling my fingernails out one by one that I would LESS like to do with my son.

Math problems that should take fifteen minutes take an hour or more considering the complicated matrix of mental breakdowns and maternal manipulations involved. Multi-tasking is out of the question because he demands I remain glued to his side, ready to help. He cries out for help with a pitiful combination of helplessness and blame, calling himself stupid and lashing out at me for not being able to help him.

I want to cradle him and smack him at the same time.

Please click here to read the rest of the article at LA Mom's Blog.