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My daughter sits at the kitchen island, already fidgeting. We’re on our second week of Covid induced home learning (calling it home schooling would indicate that I actually was prepared for this). We’re working on her math. This is the subject that her teacher had previously indicated was her strength so we would go with the lowest hanging fruit.
As we sit side by side, the slow stream of tears come from all four of our eyes. Mommy can’t interpret how to incorporate the latest math equation problem solving slant that the school district has incorporated. Baby Girl can’t understand what I’m saying since she’s only learned through the second language immersion school that we had enrolled her in.
Every minute was an escalation in frustration, ambiguity and concern over these tiny moments causing tiny fissures in an already complex relationship. Neither of us were ready for this and the blind trust in societal involvement with her education had left both sides raw.
The extra icing on the shit cake was that, prior to Covid’s lockdown, a critical meeting with her teacher over Baby Girl’s lack of scholarly progress had taken place. She was behind in a way that could not be covered up by any wonderful teacher’s aide’s best attempts. She was at that tipping point that many a parent has been confronted with:
