The little clock in the bottom-right corner of my monitor tells me it's 7:48 AM. Eastern. Which means I have only 12 minutes to finish this post and hit Publish.
My homework. Assigned by Professor Shelle. She even sent me an email reminder last night at some point during that monotonous Oscar brouhaha. I had to read my invite from Google Calendar just to remind myself of the topic. Something about who helps the kids with the homework.
For, though very few people would know this unless I told them, I am a chronic procrastinator. In fact, you probably wouldn't even know that I sat here at . . . 7:52 . . . piecing this masterpiece together if I hadn't brought it up.
My excuse? I work well under pressure. Some of my best material - for my blog, for my university classes, for my grandmother's funeral - were all crafted under the weight of an impending deadline, often only a few short moments over the horizon of time.
So I'm not the best example. Even though it works for me in most cases.
When the kids get home, it is my wife who gathers them 'round her desk, makes them drag out their assignment notebooks, tallies up the list of requirements for the evening, and then ensures that they take their place at the table and crack their books. I am there for support, for when the algebra or lit assignment gets overwhelming. I read the books they are reading and do my part to make sure they are getting the material and that they are ready for whatever test or paper is coming due.
But the whip-cracking is all my wife.
7:57 . . .
So. There ya go. Homework sucks. But my kids get it done thanks to my diligent and organized wife.
Me? I need coffee . . .
3 days ago