“Put down the book, Ilana. It’s time to do history.”
Even as I’m saying it, I realize it sounds weird. She’s absorbed in a thick novel, reading it for the second time.
(I didn’t homeschool so we could have School at Home. But the temptation is always there. Control. Me, me, me.)
“Julien, please put the guitar away. It’s time for history.”
(History is his favorite subject, but he was serenading the baby….)
We get history “done”. We look at a picture of a quipo. I consider having the children make one, so they can keep track of things. Like how many times they are kind to sibling. Or how many times they do their chore. Me, me, me.
Good thing we don’t have any string.
I go to the kitchen for a second to find something. I go back into the living room to see how everyone’s doing with their math, only the children have all scattered.
I want to feel irritated. The baby quiet on my hip, I engage in momentary self-pity.
“Why am I always having to chase these two down!?”
Then I look out the window. It’s a beautiful day. I watch.
The boy and girl, objects of my pursuit, are outside on the trampoline. The boy is holding a toddler’s hands carefully so she can jump without falling over the side. She isn’t crying anymore about her scratched eye.
I decide to breathe. And let go of the tension to Get Things Done.
History can wait a bit.