Some days don’t start out as smoothly as I’d like them to be. Captain Science can’t (or won’t) do or remember something that I think he should. We go back and forth. You should remember this! I can’t remember this! You know how to do this! I don’t know how to do this! If you can’t learn at home, you’ll have to go back to public school! If I knew how to do voodoo, I’d poke a pin in your doll’s FACE! (Ok, made that last part up). Next thing you know, I’m on the verge of yelling and he’s on the verge of tears. This can easily derail our homeschooling day and make us both miserable. I feel frustrated with Captain Science for not doing his work and guilty for blowing up him. He feels frustrated with himself for not being able to do the work and angry with me for not listening to him. Yuck.
Lately, though, I’ve been working on techniques to help us regain our equilibrium on days like this. Taking a moment to step back and find our center can quickly repair the rift between us before it grows into a gulf and can get us back on track with our work for the day, two happy people.
Today is a good example of how we’re making this new system work. Captain Science had completely forgotten how to do direct objects, despite coming back to this topic multiple times in the last few months. He just couldn’t do it. Couldn’t pick it out of a sentence. His attempts at diagramming it were becoming more and more ludicrous, with words and lines all over the place. I was fussing at him for not being able to do it, why can’t he remember, is he not making an effort, ARGH! We were both starting to raise our voices and making emphatic, angry hand gestures (have I mentioned he’s sort of, just a little bit, exactly like me?). I was very close to just screaming at him and he was very close to weeping.
I took some advice my mother’s friend once gave her about dealing with errant husbands, “Make him a sandwich.” In this case, I took a deep breath and fed him a cookie, then tried to figure out the source of both our frustration.
My issue(s): I know he has a photographic memory, so I interpret his inability to remember something as an intentional failure to remember, which results in a feeling that he’s not trying and that he doesn’t pay attention to my teaching. In other words, it’s mostly not about him, but about me.
His issue: He doesn’t understand that value of knowing about direct objects, so he makes a subconscious decision not to bank the memory. In other words, it’s not at all about me, but about the relevance of it.
The solution(s) for me: Stop taking it personally. He’s NOT not remembering to spite me or because he disrespects me. He just doesn’t see why the subject is important, which is my failure, not his. The things that aggravate me about him are surely the traits in myself that I don’t like. Don’t get pissy w/ him about that.
The solution(s) for him: Explain to him why grammar in general has value. I know he responds well to the idea of coming across, in speech and in writing, as intelligent and well-spoken, partially because he likes people to know he is smart, but mainly because being able to express himself well is important to him. He is a child who needs to be heard and understood. When I told him that proper grammar makes him sound intelligent and educated, and that throughout his life, using language correctly will help him be understood and respected, I could a visible shift as he re-engaged with the subject. Go back through the topic in two different media (a quick online and then diagramming on paper) and also allow him to explain verbally which part of speech is which, using playful examples (“‘They ran home.’ Are they running the home? NO! Home is where they’re going, not what they’re running. So the home isn’t the direct object. If I say ‘I run the home,” is home a direct object? YES! And it’s also true, because I RUN THE HOME.”) to get him laughing.
Within a matter of minutes, we were being silly, giggling, and he could diagram all three example sentences perfectly, as well as identify with 100% accuracy whether a word was the direct object or predicate noun. Once informed of the relevance, he could turn that memory back on in his brain and use it. Cookies were eaten, work was finished, and now we’re having a grand fine time while he reads his Ancient Greek history lesson for the day and flails in his chair. “I feel suddenly wild!” he just said to me. I’m glad. Better wild (and happy) than miserable and tearful.
I’m glad we found our center. I’m proud of both of us.
