Is there anything better, after a 10-hour day at work, than spending the better part of the next 8 hours working on your kid’s homework project that no child of that age could possibly do with even a lot of help, let alone on their own?
Okay, so in point of fact, grabbing a goat by the balls and hanging on while he tears ass around the farm yard might be just a tiny bit better, but I dunno. I’d probably have to try to be sure.
Homework that parents are required to do is bullshit. Do you hear me, teachers? Listen closely. Helping the kid? Fine, no problem. Facilitating the research? Great. Something I 100% have to do for them? Caca de Moo.
And assigning said project anywhere within the remote vicinity of April 15? There is a special place in hell for that, and it’s in a cubicle in the IRS section of hell.
Suffice to say that it is 3:46 a.m., and I’ve officially been wrung out hard and put away wet. To say that I’m dragging doesn’t really begin to cover it. And during that 8 hours of project time, my workload for tomorrow doubled, and my start time needs to be in 5 hours. We’re also supposed to have thunderstorms here tomorrow, so the usual extra time I get on Fridays when the Boy goes swimming (and NEED on Fridays) will probably evaporate.
I need a beach. I need ocean waves and sunshine and sand and cold, slushy drinks with umbrellas in them and fruit on the little swords. Much fruit, from many drinks. Enough to equip my own private little plastic army of pirates with my stash of plastic swords.
On guard, damn it. ARGH, mateys.