Between school and our two extracurricular activities each week the whole family is just DONE by Thursday afternoon.
Last night was no exception and after Ryan carried a comatose Wes upstairs from the car to be tucked in to bed fully clothed, he put James down while I fed and put Mary down. Charlie was instructed to spend the twenty or so minutes it took to do those two things "doing his reading for school."
Which is what led to me standing in my pajamas this morning holding Charlie's reading chart and a pen, five minutes before he absolutely HAD to leave, asking him "Please, please, please tell me you read something with actual text in it yesterday? Anything at all? A catalog? A Mo Willems book? Family Circle?"
Because I am a rule follower and the thought of either A) falsifying his reading folder or B) admitting that we gave him a pass from the homework tyranny for one measly little night when he was so tired he burst into hysterical (and highly out of character) tears at 7:00 because he couldn't go out to play IN THE DARK both seemed like undesirable choices.
He seemed to sense my desperation and told me that he had indeed read several pages of a school book before settling in to "Where's Waldo" for the rest of the evening.
Because I really didn't want to write "Where's Waldo" on his reading chart. Or maybe I did. Because I hate that freaking reading chart. My kid loves to read; most of the time it's Beverly Cleary and Rhode Dahl and Mark Brown. His teacher has been sending home some very nice and just-challenging-enough chapter books for him. But sometimes he just wants to chill out and "read" Where's Waldo.
Sometimes he sneaks up behind me and reads over my shoulder and asks me questions like "Why are people so mad about a 'Tea Party'? It sounds nice to me."
If I can read everything from Virginia Wolfe to Cosmo, why can't he do the six-year-old equivalent? Minus the sex quizzes, of course.