Yet another darned collection of bugs

Although I’m done with my formal education and have no intention of ever again darkening a classroom door, I still have to deal with homework.

Lately, I’ve had more lessons than you can shake a No. 2 pencil at. I’ve had to contemplate correlative expressions, create elaborate compositions, and just the other night I had to get my mind around a biological equation that had me longing for soft music and a stiff drink.

They say children shouldn’t have this much homework. They say a child should utilize their free minutes, address what he needs to do, and learn the discipline of good time management and study habits.

Personally, I’m all for disciplining the heck out of these kids if it will spare me the details of decimals. Quite frankly, math homework gives me a headache.

And for what? I can’t imagine a day in an average adult’s life when she would need to know what three minus c to the third power divided by nine adds up to. I really can’t.

I can balance my checkbook, compute caloric intake on my low-carb diet, and have managed to keep the family on a tight and stringent budget. And all without the fun of incorporating integers and common denominators into my calculations.

Don’t get me started on history. There is nothing that a mother, such as myself, dreads more than when her teenage son plunks a 50-pound history book (complete with maps and study guides) in her lap and suggests, “I think it’s time for you and I to bond while we brush me up on the Articles of Confederation.”

Doesn’t that just conjure up a Norman Rockwell image?

Since it was too late to close my eyes and fake death, I braced myself and said, “Why don’t you tell me what you have learned so far?”

“Well,” he said in total seriousness, “I’ve learned that the Federalists used tough political maneuvering to win a narrow ratification of the Constitution in the key states. How much fun is that?”

I didn’t exactly respond to his question, and I think it was about the time that I closed my eyes, plugged my ears and started to hum that he realized that perhaps my constitutional knowledge was not all it’s cracked up to be.

All the homework in the world pales when compared to school projects.

School projects have caused more strife than any social issue known to the family unit. They have pushed American families to the brink, taken over American living rooms, and have been known to cause great discord in the hearts of God-fearing parents everywhere.

I’ve been tortured by Invent America, detailed solar systems, science fair involvement, leaf collections, and a 3-D castle that we, as a family, erected over a holiday weekend.

Our most recent project is the dreaded bug collection, and I have to say that we’re up to our antennae in vermin. We’ve got katydids on the counters, stink beetles in the living room and the ever-loving damselfly has all but taken over the arrangement on the coffee table.

We’ve got ticks taped and pinned, spiders in test tubes, and if you’ve seen one spotted camel cricket properly mounted (aka ceuthophilus pallidus) well then, you’ve seen them all.

Rather than be drawn together as a family, rather than coddle one another as we join hands and learn about the wild and crazy life cycles of the gossamer wing butterfly, we’re at each other’s throats.

Meanwhile, Huey, (our young would-be entomologist who will benefit from this chaos with a grade) feels as though he’s had it with the fine world of orthopteras. Quite frankly, I fear he lacks the coping skills to survive it. Rather than enjoy his educational experience, he’s often shouted out, “I can’t do it!”

This is echoed with sounds of woe from another brother, who bellows from the great room, “For $50, can anyone tell me how many total delegates would have had to switch sides in order for all of those states to have opposed ratification?”

There’s a three-second pause of silence before another child continues with a “gosh!” or “this is stupid,” and then we’re right back to the infamous, “I can’t do this!”

I think the all-knowing “they” are right when they say that discipline is the key. And I’m considering a belt.

Now, what do you suppose they would recommend — vodka or whiskey?

Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book “Are We There Yet?” Her e-mail address is clinch@atcjet.net.