Filed Under: Misanthrope Mom*

We had an Irish dance morning, which began with my first attempt at crock-pot rice cereal. I’m not much of one for whole grains–believing they are vile and meant for animals, but make good peasant food if the peasants are starving–so I added the beef juices leftover from a roast, as well as coconut oil, cinnamon, raisins, and chopped apples. It was a kind of savory mince treat, fitting into the paradigm of appropriate “humorous” foods, nourishing the phlegmatics and melancholics alike. The children also had whole milk or plain yogurt at their discretion. One of them slurped up an egg. Don’t be alarmed; my family is used to my cooking, which either follows some weird archaic formulation or is wholly based off science: Are all necessary nutrients accounted for? Affirmative. But it tastes terrible! All nutrients are accounted for. Detecting irrationality…detecting irrationality…please hold; cannot quantify irrationality.

My youngest child, who is also my only son, sat at the table wearing a long-sleeved white shirt with a rounded, slightly-frilled collar. It would have been an appropriate part of an Irish dance costume…if he were a girl.

“Why is [redacted] wearing a girl’s shirt?” I shouted.

“We couldn’t find anything else for him to wear!”

And why was I just hearing about this on the morning of performance? My children know I’m not particularly fond of clothes shopping and other nuisances and, aside from that, my son is very choosy with his clothes, so shopping with him is a big ordeal. I would have bought him a plain white boy’s shirt, though. I told them to find something else–and quick!–before their father noticed his only son was wearing a girl’s shirt. Thankfully, they found him a nice, blue plaid button-down. My son’s relief, once in the blue-plaid, sans-frilly-collar, was palpable. He ran his hands down the front of his shirt and turned into his cocky little self again (not that a shirt changes him in any real way, but he does puff his chest a little when confident).

In addition to son’s wardrobe issues, one of my daughters had a hole in her tights, but it wasn’t worth moaning over (as I would’ve bought her new tights, yesterday). They had a performance! At nine in the morning (and they had to be there early)! Who attends an Irish dance performance at that hour in the morning?! Despite these minor malfunctions and the strange food in their bellies, they danced well, and a small crowd turned out to cheer the local dancers. My son forgot some of his steps, but that doesn’t surprise me, as he spends most of his spare time playing Minecraft and practicing parkour. In a single day, he performs at least 100 handstands of various kinds; I’m surprised he didn’t forget himself and perform them on stage. Oh, and he shouts and throws fits if we don’t oblige him with math tests every_single_day. He must take math tests. On his five-page Christmas list, right after real axes and real knives and real TNT, he carefully wrote in bold colored markers: math tests; math speed tests.

I don’t know how it happened, but we seem to have become a math-oriented family. Math has been much easier to teach to my children than reading. In other news, my eldest daughter, and my first home-school graduate, just tested into the 99th percentile for math (97th and 96th in reading and writing respectively). I’m allowed to brag; my friends on Facebook said so! For years, I argued logically and factually in defense of home education, until I matured past such absurd rationality and decided that I homeschool because 92.5% of teachers are idiots works just as well, even though the percentage is cited from nowhere and the term idiot is not terribly precise. My eldest daughter’s success means my approach of Figure out how to do your work yourself and, by the way, do it perfectly or else is effective. I should write a book detailing my program. I’ll leave it to somebody else to write the one entitled Survivors of Misanthrope Homeschool Moms: a dozen children speak out.

*Filed Under > Misanthrope Moms > Bragging Rights > Eternal Sunshine of the Dappled Mind

**Oh, wow, I just fell asleep at the computer. I wanted to write something today, and I couldn’t face my dreaded writing project that looms in front of me like a great white door, behind which, monsters lurk. I hope this blog post doesn’t put you to sleep, too. I know I get tired of hearing moms bragging about their kids.


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