Homework Hell

It’s something that happens to every parent, something so tried and true that it has become the Mom and Dad equivalent of, “It was a dark and stormy night…”

It’s the homework project from hell. Or in formal education terms, it’s called project-based learning.

“OK, fine,” the teacher seems to say. “You leave them with me 5½ hours a day, 180 days a year, expecting me to impart my wisdom and knowledge so they can be successful. You are therefore expected to spend money on art supplies you use once, subject your household to more crafts and pieces of cardboard and paper than you ever thought possible, and help them come up with something unique that can show what they have learned.”

Sounds fair, on the surface, except that it fosters this underground competition that subjects parents to peer pressure like we haven’t felt since seventh grade. There’s nothing like telling your child to “do your best” and “hang in there” when you know that her papier-mâché diorama stands no chance next to the four-camera exhibit complete with visual effects commissioned exclusively from Industrial Light & Magic.

To be fair, teachers always say, “This needs to be your child’s work.” Some parents take that literally, while others use it as license to create a life-sized replica of the U.S. Capitol out of cake batter.

It doesn’t help that your child waits until the night before said project is due before informing you that she needs glue sticks and a packet of construction paper. Seeing other parents in the supplies aisle of an all-night CVS takes on the appearance of a support group meeting.

Again, to be fair to the generations of parents who preceded us, this is something that is wired into every child’s DNA. More than once, my mom has said my epitaph should be, “If I could only do this tomorrow.” As a kid, I believed procrastination should be considered an Olympic sport with no time trial.

So you can imagine the flashbacks I had when Emma announced that she needed help on a project for National History Day. Mind you, this is a project that has been three months in the making, and it was due this week.

Emma, in many respects, is the Marilyn to our Herman, Lily, Grandpa, and Eddie.  She is the child located perfectly in the center of the bell curve. She is a very good student, conscientious and with an innate desire to be successful. She also is the most linear human being I’ve ever met, a child who would alphabetize her prayers if you let her.

You would think, given these traits, that she would understand the difficulty of conceptualizing large, outside-the-box projects. Not this time.

Emma’s decision to take on the “History of the Steam Engine” was fraught from the start, but never more so than when the deadline loomed this week. When she finally admitted that she needed help — and glue sticks — it was almost too late.

And so I faced the parenting dilemma, the choice of whether to let her do it herself or join the Industrial Light & Magic crowd. I opted for a compromise position, offering to help with the project’s broad parameters while relying on her to do the actual work herself. 

Over the next 36 hours, she cut and glued and groused while I made suggestions. Work projects that lingered for me remained on hold. At one point, our family computer failed, losing documents left and right. I helped Emma retype the work.

Slowly, agonizingly at times, it started taking shape. As midnight loomed on the day before it was due, amazingly, it was done. The next day, we were both bleary eyed, but I saw my daughter’s obvious pride in her work. It was better than she thought it would be, and I helped her get it there.

We don’t know what her final grade will be, but for once, I received an “A” in parenting.