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.
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.