Towards the end of the three week Easter break, the Boy revealed that he had an English essay to write. This is my child who hates English, because it’s so borrrrrrrrrring. He showed me the planning sheet that he had begun in class:
and we sat down and
we I he managed to get the two introductory paragraphs done before we I he began flailing about and moaning: It’s too hard, I can’t do it, it’s so boring. As it was the morning after two consecutive sleepovers awake-overs, I admitted defeat but warned him that we’re not leaving it until the Easter weekend. I’m not spending the last weekend of the school break doing homework, that’s not fair on me. We’ve had all this time and now… Sorry, I went into automatic tirade for a moment there. Withdrawn.
On Thursday we sat back down to finish the essay. Sure enough, after a few minutes, he resumed the flailing, moaning and whingeing. This time I was having none of it. I knew that we were off to London the next day and that we had plans for the rest of the weekend. It had to be done. NOW.
So I cajoled, teased, brought cookies, nagged and wheedled until bit by bit, the essay began to emerge and we reached a sort of nirvana at one point when he began contributing independent thought ! voluntarily! without prodding!
He finished the essay and as we headed back downstairs I found myself saying:
I know that was hard and you didn’t want to do it, but sometimes you just have to put your bum in the chair and even when you don’t feel like it, you just do it. And then it’s done, right?
We reached the end of the stairs, he went outside to kick a football and I sat down on the bottom step and wondered why I’m not following my own advice.