Here we are, almost one month into our respective new school years and I've been enjoying the fact that McRae has not come home each week with a bulging manila envelope full of homework packets for me to grade -- hard, challenging, so difficult that I need a calculator homework packets belonging to children who will no doubt be running our country effectively some day (one can dream).
You see, I've grown lazy over the summer in regards to my alone time. And nothing sucks alone time away more than correcting homework every week.
Plus, it hurts my brain, but that is another situation for which I can happily excuse myself from said homework duties and pour another glass of red. [The teachers love it when I correct homework while enjoying a nice pinot or petite syrah.]
Anyway, I thought I'd dodged a bullet. The thought of those gigantic piles of homework packets did not even cross my mind. I clapped happily and jumped with glee while emptying the contents of my 4th graders backpack, knowing that among the large quantities of paper in it, there were no homework packets waiting for me to correct! I relaxed and grew complacent. I did not give it a second thought.
Of course, not giving it a second thought was the worst thing I could have done because today, today of all days - I dug deep into Wyatt's backpack and withdrew a suspicious beige envelope.
There was a cute little sticky note on the outside: "Carrie, could you please correct this homework? Whenever you have time is fine! Signed, The Teacher."
I grumbled and groaned, wondering how this teacher, this new teacher, could have possibly known to send homework to me. When I filled out my volunteer information there was not a place to check for "will correct homework until I am blue in the face." There was no way she could have known that I had been doing this for years and I was convinced that the Teacher's Lounge was to blame.
"You've got a (insert my last name) in your class? Send your homework home to his mom! She'll have it corrected in a jiffy!"
And then they all raise their glasses of wine.
Okay, not really. But I do think there is a conspiracy going on behind the doors of our elementary school.
I was telling my husband, who loves to listen to me yammer on about such things, about my conspiracy theory and he just rolled his eyes at me.
[Nothing like a husband to tell you like it is.]
"So, let me get this straight," he said, looking at me like I'd completely gone off my rocker, "you're irritated because you are known as the mom who corrects the homework?"
"Yes!" I shouted, so happy that he finally understood what I was talking about. Being the mom who corrects the homework is no easy walk in the park. Oh, I wanted to grab his face in my hands and give him one . . . right on the kisser.
"Would you rather be known as the crack whore mom?"
[Nothing like a husband's perspective to snap one right out of La La Land, huh?]