When school broke for the summer, all the kids in Ads' class got their holiday homework. Nothing too scary, just a slim booklet containing some colouring pages and activities to do over the summer - drawing the family tree and growing a plant were two sample activities. The booklet was faithfully transported to Chennai in the faint hope that one of the grandmas would sit down with Ads and help him with his "homework"; in the whirlwind of socializing that was our summer break, this went on the backburner.
Back home, I am confronted with a bigger task - sprucing up Ads' handwriting (something that I have blogged about here). It has been frustrating for me, not because Ads' brain as regards the alphabet seems to have been wiped clean over the summer, but because teaching him brings out the worst in me and exposes the biggest faults in my personality. My irritability and impatience viciously feed on each other to create a mommy monster who is scary and detestable. I hate myself when I let myself go like this, and especially when the object of my rage is a hapless four-year old, and when the whole exercise is so patently pointless.
Even more scary was the thought that I may just be evolving into one of those hyper moms who moan and groan about their kid getting *only* 90% and not getting into IIT. If I can traumatize my son about his ABCs, surely I am not far from being that parent?
Enough. Deep breathing should do the trick. I think!