Homeschooling is boring… and other Legit Laments of the Criminally Young

Being a kid is an unjust position.  

Kids have no legal say over anything that goes on in their lives. They are dragged behind the adults of their lives like mentally disadvantaged ducklings. Ducklings walk, but that’s only a technicality. Where would they go without the Mama Duck? They’d get lost and possibly consumed.

This is our fear with human children, too, is it not?

I want my youngest child to get neither lost nor consumed, so we returned to homeschooling during this global pandemic.

And, we hates it.

We are both the kinds of people who become bored very easily. Our minds are whirlwinds of activity and the world cannot keep up. We are creative to the point of hypertension. We have a minimum of three projects going at a time.

You know the type. We read while we eat, because God forbid we only have one thing to do. People who only do one thing at a time cannot be trusted. We are protective of our trustworthiness.

We think at least five thoughts simultaneously. We’ve had multiple conversations about this. It is our norm and we pity people whose minds are quieter and, thus, disinteresting. We are not disinteresting. Ever.

Instead, we are disinterested.

You might think homeschooling would align perfectly with characters such as this. Alas, you would be mistaken. After taking time to enjoy how your wrongness feels in our bodies, we would assure you that homeschooling feels like absolute drudgery when there is a pandemic and you hate looking at people wearing masks, either literal or metaphorical.  Luckily, our town has other homeschoolers and they are meeting at a park weekly. However, with a work schedule more rigid than I’d like and a park incident that left my kid feeling like friends are less desirable than new books, we have stopped attending Park Day.

The kid is a tween and firmly within the emotional gestalt of the teen years. She is all things passionate and self-identifies as gothic. This direction is encouraged by Mama Duck only because it is amusing and keeps said child from interrupting her 1000 times per day. We’re down to 150 interruptions per day, max, and life feels manageable, again.

Manageably boring.

I would like to say I am the sort who takes on new tasks and learns new things when confronted by boredom. Unfortunately, I must admit I am more the type who moans and whines and types out long blog posts about the limitations of, not my imagination, but my situation. My imagination is fine. I have imagined at least five ways I would appreciate dying and mentally written two eulogies that neither reflect the generosity of my spirit nor deflect from how utterly boring I found life.

I asked my therapist if she thought I was depressed. Turns out we agree that I’m simply entitled.

I thought my life would be more interesting than this once I hit my 40s. I expected it. No one predicted a global pandemic. We were simply supposed to die from starvation and capitalistic greed; not holed up at home afraid of our neighbor’s spittle.

This is all simply too mundane, this pandemic. Homeschooling during a pandemic is a good way to kill me. It’s unexpected, this twist.

Score one for the Universe. My kid and I are dying of opulent and overly-nourished boredom.

I guess, though, that I’ve lied to you. I have tried new things. I’m currently participating in an expensive online attempt to snag a husband-like creature. I figure that if I must die, there should be a penis in my vagina. Or evidence of such within a reasonable time-frame.

A rose quartz dildo cannot be my final penetrant. I’d rather be gored to death by a raging rhino than die sexless during a pandemic. There must be some hormonal proof that I was riled up by something other than the tedium of fifth-grade grammar.

There must.

f(emin)ist

i want.

i want and want and want.

and the third syllable, the one that should mitigate my wanting, my desire… the third syllable whose job it is to transform my lustful nature into one of patience,

it fails me, again.

i don’t lust after the things society tells us we all lust after.

i lust after

freedom +

land +

babies.

i don’t want the man, just his seed.

seed.

what a ridiculous term, as the true seed lies within me.

the man has, at best, a fertilizer.

a root stimulant.

he can share it with me, like the answer to a math problem.

not a particularly challenging one,

just one in which i forgot a simple formula.

he rescues me with the answer. i’m to remember the formula myself.

isn’t that the way it is?

so,

i never lust after a man. i enjoy math and prefer the solitude in it.

i don’t want anyone giving me the answers.

i am not a cheat.

my want, my desire, my lust goes unsatisfied.

dissatisfied, more like. dissatisfied with the way everything has turned out, turns out.

om mane padme hum

it never quite obliterates the desire, that third syllable.

it never quiets my womanhood.

maybe it only works on men.

maybe it only works if you enjoy the answers more than you enjoy the formulas,

if you enjoy having more than you enjoy creating.

it never quiets my humanity.

the parts of me, the alls of me, the need for space cluttered with

trees +

moss +

soil as black as the shiniest skin.

i don’t need diamonds. society lies.

the only shine i require comes from the

sun and

skin with Kemetan ancestry and

eyes of one who delights in living.

babies are the gift we receive when we open ourselves to the mystery of life.

let me bask in the glow of a newborn,

let me become the succulent of the genus homo.

let me transform and transfer this desire into tangible means by way of

squatting and

birthing and

nurturing.

land + me + babies =

f(satisfaction)

parenting teens without breaking down

Once upon a time, I gave birth to four humans within five years, one at a time. It was a ton of fun and I completely immersed myself  in my mothering role. I loved that no day was ever the same, as I am easily bored in this life. Parenting four, young children day-in and day-out rarely bored me and I spent the time doing a lot of healing from my own childhood.

I remember standing in my kitchen when the youngest of the four was around age one and thinking to myself I cannot wait until they are teenagers! I will have four teens at the same time! I can’t wait to see what they try to get away with and what they think they know! To say that parenting was my jam would be a gross understatement.

But, then, I actually had teenagers. Continue reading

mijas

I admit that I don’t have the best track record with my daughters at age 8. They seem to bloom into hormonal rage at the drop of a hat and I return the volley to the best of my abilities. Afterward, sometimes in the midst, I am shocked by my own vitriol.

Then, they cry. And, I want to cry, too, but I can’t show weakness or maybe the tenuous grasp I have on the ability to influence them disintegrates. I am stuck in an age-old vortex of confusion and they are warriors, like me. It could be a fight to the death.

So, I bend. I bend and wind around them like an invasive vine, wrapping them in my arms, disguising myself as every ounce of love I carry for them.

The mother-daughter connection sometimes feels as if it will snap in two, yet it endures. And, as I bring my daughter back into the space of her first earthly home, love envelopes us both.

They say Sekhmet, they say Kali was so enraged that they had to intoxicate her through the blood to bring her back to her senses. Perhaps that is the patriarchal re-telling. It’s more likely that her daughters grabbed onto her waist, tightened their grasp in a fit of love, and the rage simply left her body.

Daughters are the antidote to everything that ails a mother.

modern parenting is harmed by the public

I no longer have a Facebook page, so this blog is going to become more bloggy in the future. In spurts, because I just don’t see the point in sharing most of what I would share on Facebook (hence, my removal of self from that virtual world and all social media). I do feel the need to share this particular observation/thought, though.

I currently live in The South. I am from The South and am quite comfortable with certain Southern expectations, as they are typically the expectations of all “civilized” hordes of people: Use your manners and show consideration for others. (In fact, the point of manners is to show consideration for others. They can also be used as a form of artificial hierarchy, but I reject that usage, in general.)

Continue reading