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homework dance

Thing2 floats above and around the kitchen table.  A moth might be drawn to the pendant light hanging over the table, but my seven-year-old flutter-bug isn’t attracted to light.  He makes it on his own.  I think it’s light anyway and not a repressed need to go potty.

What isn’t repressed is the energy that keeps him dancing around the single worksheet that’s assigned for the night.  He does a row and then he needs to examine a bump in the dog’s fur.

“Is that a tick, Mom?  I need to hug you.”

“Sit down and do your homework.”  He smiles and slide-spins back to the table.  He never struggles with the numbers – only the sitting.  Another row of problems is done.

“I can’t get that song out of my head,” he tells me.

“You’re supposed to be having math problems in your head,” I answer.  Before his butt gets too far off the wooden seat I say, “Sit down and do your homework.”

The next three rows go faster. He’s remembered something he wants to do when it’s done, but we have one more round of distraction and reseating before the flutter-bug is done with his assignment.

“Mom, I can’t wait to go to school and see my friends,” he says as he finishes the last row, “but why do we have to have homework?”  He flits over to me to get his worksheet initialed.  The numbers are surprisingly neat and accurate.

“I thought you liked homework,” I say as he dances back to the kitchen table to get his spelling list.

“I hate it,” he says slipping the yellow sheet of words into my hand.  He pirouhettes away from me, waiting for the first word.

“Crumbs,” I say.  Thing2 is now concentrating on an arabesque, but he manages to tap out the letters, finishing the word with a kick and a leap.  He flutters from one end of the great room to the other as he taps out the letters for the next ten words, and I don’t bother trying to get him to sit.  The last letter of the last word gets a special flourish and I get a hug that should squeeze me down a jean size.  Yeah, he hates homework alright.