Messy Minded Momma

I have never been good at homework. My ADHD made pacing myself nearly impossible. I would procrastinate a massive assignment until the night before it was due, fueled by panic and a glass of cold milk that had long since gone lukewarm. I did not retain lessons the way other kids seemed to. When I asked for clarification and still did not understand, I would smile and nod like I absolutely did understand while doom quietly washed over my entire body. I was terrified of looking dumb. So instead of asking again, I accepted my fate. In one ear, out the other.

When I did complete assignments, they came back at a solid C+ at best. Sometimes lower if they were late. And yes, I definitely used excuses when I did not hand something in. Classic ones: printer issues, miscommunication (“I thought it was due next week.”) But one time my dog actually did eat my homework. Truly. Grade 11 English. I had to say those words out loud to a real adult. It was equal parts humiliating and hilarious. And no, my teacher did not believe me.

Eventually, my frustration got the better of me and I dropped out. School felt like a place where I was constantly failing, no matter how hard I was trying. I carried that feeling with me for years.

Twenty years later, I went back. I finished what I started. Graduating last year healed something in me that I did not fully realize was still open. But let me be clear: healing does not automatically make me good at homework.

Now my son is in JK and the beast has returned. Except this time, it is not mine. It is his.

From the beginning, I tried to get ahead of it. I casually introduced “homework” before he even knew what homework was. Arts and crafts were homework. Colouring was homework. Gluing random objects onto paper plates was apparently academic excellence. My husband and I are both neurodivergent, so I quietly assumed we would need a plan.

We set up a shared office for me and my son. Two desks. Mine for sewing, Cricut projects, and work. His for homework. Which until recently meant Play-Doh and markers. Now it means real school assignments.

When I say it is time to do homework, we go to the office. He sits at his desk with his Spider-Man organizer stocked with pencils, glue, markers, crayons, erasers, and a few fidget spinners for moral support. I sit at mine. My desk faces the window. His faces the wall. Minimal distractions. Structured environment. We are prepared.

Last night, he had to trace and write the letter K and circle the pictures that start with K. This is well within his skill set. And yet. It took approximately one year off my life for him to complete four uppercase letters, four lowercase letters, and circle three images.

He whined. He stretched. He adjusted his chair seventeen times. He clicked marker lids. He walked to the white board. In class, his teacher says he rushes through his work to get to free play. At home, time slows to a painful crawl.

I could feel myself slipping back into old emotions. The same overwhelm. The same frustration. The same quiet fear of “why is this so hard?”

The difference now is perspective. I take this seriously. I want to set him up for success. I have created the environment. Laminated mood strategies. Provide positive reinforcement, snacks, and routine. I take deep breaths. Still, this two-headed beast feels large.

One head is his frustration. The other is my past.

But maybe the goal is not to slay it. Maybe it is to shrink it. To break it into tiny, manageable pieces. To remember that four K’s on a Thursday night do not define his intelligence or mine. I cannot rewrite my childhood homework battles. But I can make sure my son does not fight his alone.

And if all else fails, at least I now know the dog eating homework excuse only works once per lifetime. If that.