His bare feet slap across the floor as he comes to have his math work checked.  He’s been working on them for 2 1/2 hours now, lost his pencil 3 times, and sharpened it 5.  He’s grinning from ear to ear and declares “I got them all right!  These ones were easy!”  I smile and take his book from him and look at the 4 problems that he’s managed to work out in that time.

 

“7 thousands + 6 hundreds + 3 tens + 4 ones = ____ + ____+ _____+____=___________”  is the first problem on the page.  I scan his answers and try not to sigh.

 

“7 thousands + 6 hundreds + 3 tens + 4 ones = 7 + 6 + 3 + 4 = 20″  I give him a wink and tell him that his math for the answers he’s given is sound, but the numbers that he’s written down don’t match what the book has asked for.  Place value is important.  The tears begin to fall down his face, dripping over the peanut butter smudge that he forgot to wash off of his face earlier.  He moans that the spaces are too small to write his numbers and I agree that they do seem small for the number of digits needed.  It’s even harder when you write your numbers so very large.  But they must be written, and so we’ll do our best to make do with what we’ve got.  His frustration rises and he goes to the next room to calm himself.

A few minutes later he comes out smiling and ready to try again.  He carefully writes his numbers on the lines with his tongue poking out of one side of his mouth.  His pencil pressed so hard against the paper the first time that they numbers, though erased, are just as visible as they were before.  His new numbers are so closely crammed together that they are barely legible.  Yet I can tell that he’s erased them at least once in between to do his best to make them fit.

“7 thousands + 6 hundreds + 3 tens + 4 ones = 7000 + 600 + 30 + 4 = 1334″

This time I can’t help it.  I let the sigh out.  He overhears it and the tears start again.  He’s sure he’s right.  He’s written down the numbers and added them together.  But somehow that 7 ended up above the 6 instead of one place over…

I write the numbers into a vertical addition problem, reminding him to be careful that the place values line up properly.  He leans over my shoulder, bits of candy stuck on his shirt wafting up the scent of chocolate, to watch me write the numbers and look at how to line them up.  He goes back to his desk with my written out problem and returns proudly.  “I did it this time!” he happily declares as the book crashes down on the arm of my chair.  I pick up the book, sure that he’s correct.

“7 thousands + 6 hundreds + 3 tens + 4 ones = 7000 + 600 + 30 + 4 = 4367″

I’m not even sure that I can break it to him.  He’s still smiling and waiting.  “Buddy…”  This time he’s the one to sigh.  He checks his work, then explains to me that he’s correct.  He shows me the problem that I wrote out and his correct answer.  I agree with him, that he did write his answer correctly there.  Yet he copied it down completely backwards in his math book.  He half laughs because it’s funny but it happens often enough that it’s losing its humor.

We repeat the above process for the next 3 problems in that section.  Only 29 more math problems to go!

 

Relieved to be done with those 4 pesky problems, he sits down to complete the rest of the page.  Multiplication is new and fun and he gets it done quickly.  He comes thumping back across the house to me.  I try not to giggle that he’s forgotten to zip up his pants, again, remembering the songs I learned in school to sing at kids that did the same and glad that he hasn’t ever been subjected to them.  I check his work and give him a high five for getting them all correct.

On to the next problem.  An image of four $5 bills is shown and he’s asked to write the total.  He begins flipping backwards through his book.  I ask him what he’s doing, and he says that he’s looking for the lesson that taught him to count money.  I stop him and ask him how much money four $5 bills is.  He answers “Twenty dollars” yet continues to look for that past lesson.  I stop him again and explain to him that he doesn’t need the past lesson.  He knows the answer.  He only needs to write it down.  Aggravated at me, he writes down his answer, nearly breaking his pencil from writing so hard.  Our pencil sharpener lives a hard life.

Now the next problem, four $10 bills.  Again he begins turning pages to find past lessons.  I ask him what the total is of the cash pictured.  He answers “Forty dollars” and the page turning goes on.  I tell him that he can look for that lesson as long as he wants… AFTER he writes down his answer.  He writes it down and continues to look for that lesson, finally finding it and fulfilling whatever unknown need it was to see it.

 

He decides to complete his lesson on the ottoman, not 10 feet from us.  The kids have left out their rugs that they sit on to watch television, leaving colored polka-dots in a random pattern across the floor.  He jumps from one to another, then another, he can’t stop now, he just keeps going.  He lands with a thud as one of them slides out from under him.  Standing up he starts back on the rug he’d been on previously and lands on the rebel rug conquering it.  Proudly he struts off to work on the next few math problems.  He pauses between each problem to tell me something about a game he likes to play, or a new Lego set that he wants.  Then runs off to show them to me in a catalog.  After what seems like ages, he comes back across the rugs the same way he came, taking 10 minutes to cross the space of the room.  I scan his work and hand it back to him with another high five.

 

He does his rug island hop across the room, only one section left to answer.  This time he settles on the floor behind a chair.  He sits back there talking to himself.  He can carry on entire conversations without anyone listening in.  His communication skills will take him far if they don’t get him into too much trouble first.  I lose it and yell at him to stop talking and get his work done.  He’s SO CLOSE!  At last he hop-skip-jumps across the room.  This time cheating by sliding one of the rugs a bit because it’s now slid too far from the others.  I check his answers.  His numbers are the height of half of my finger and nearly as wide as they are tall, yet somehow he’s managed to fit them all on the line given.

I struggle to read his answers, remembering a teacher in school that used to do the same for my own work, then crumple it up, throw it in the trash, and tell me to redo the entire lesson again.  This happy-go-lucky child would never make it through the public school system.  Not without becoming completely broken down and bitter.  I can only imagine the notes home from the teacher.

 

I give him another high five.  He’s finished his lesson.  It’s now 4:30 in the afternoon.  He moves on to his next subject, but not before racing around the room and stopping to tell me something he wants to check out the next time we’re at the store.  He has handwriting next but his pencil has disappeared again.  Nevermind that in the next room is a gross of brand new pencils.  None of them are his pencil and the search must continue until it’s found.  At last it’s recovered and his handwriting is completed.  He can do better, but I have no more energy left.  It’s good enough today.

He reads his bible and a book on the California Gold Rush next.  As he reads learns how to use the dictionary and to pronounce hard words like tabernacle and Mokelumne.  After struggling to learn the basics of phonics for so long, I’m glad that he’s determined to tackle these books and look up difficult words.  He’s so proud of what he’s overcome that he asks to read out loud.  I should be cooking dinner now, but he still has 3 chapters to go and the sizzling of the pans on the stove is nearly impossible for him to focus through.  He’s a growing boy and food of any kind is a distraction.

I don’t have the patience to homeschool.  I don’t.  Some people might, but not me.  I wish I did.  It wasn’t until I wrote this post out that I saw myself in that little boy.  Asking God for help through the lesson of patience.  Sighing, rolling my eyes, yelling, and each time my own Father saying “Okay, let’s try it again.  You can do this!”   One day I’m gonna get the most awesome high five ever!

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