Let’s get things straight. I’m not a Martha Stewart mother, one of those women born to parent. I am neither willing nor able to build a replica of the Taj Mahal out of items from the recycling box.
In recent weeks, I’ve felt compelled to do something slightly more interesting with my children on Sundays because they have to write in their journals at school on Monday morning.
This is how I came to the decision to get off my butt on Sunday afternoons.
At a parent-teacher conference in January, William’s kindergarten teacher remarked, “He tends to write the same thing in his journal every week. But as his confidence increases, that will change.”
Of course, I am pretty sure this repetitiveness had little to do with Will’s confidence and a lot to do with the fact that I don’t do many interesting things with my kids.
This hypothesis was confirmed when I went to Vivian’s parent-teacher conference. One look through her journal revealed that she was making a lot of things up. Yup, my five-year-old is writing fiction and passing it off as truth. “We made cookies. They were chocolate chip,” I read. Now, although my memory of day-to-day items is sketchy, I’m pretty confident I haven’t made cookies in about 18 months. Still, no need to disclose this fact to her teacher.
Fast forward to my epiphany: if I do something vaguely interesting each Sunday, William won’t have to repeat “I went sledding on a hill” for the entire school year, and Vivian won’t have to lie.
So, I’m trying. Over the past eight weeks, we’ve built a snowman, fed the horses, gone swimming, trekked to a new playground, and rolled pizza dough. It ain’t the Taj Mahal, but it’s something.
Once again, unbeknownst to them, those little cretins are making me a better person.