An ordinary night in September: 54 math problems. Convert the fraction to a decimal–which is basically long division, right? So how long should a long division problem take a reasonably capable 11 year old. Maybe 2 minutes? SO that means 108 minutes for one night’s homework for one class.
As a dad and as an educator, I have to ask, “WHY?”
- Practice? What benefit is there in 54 problems that would not be in 15, or even 20?
- Different types of problems? It has been a while since I took middle school math, but I don’t remember several dozen different types of fractions to divide. (Sorry–Watching my son get frustrated and discouraged by a wave of homework tends to make me uncharacteristically bitter.)
And that’s just one class. Toss in some work for English. And then some social studies. Definitions and illustrations for science. Don’t forget the 6th grade ‘research’ class. If the perfect storm of homework hits, the boy may be looking at 3 hours or more. Plus cello practice. If it happens to be a soccer night, we’re probably headed for an email to Coach: Sorry–too much homework. We can’t get there tonight.
Once again–he’s 11.
I had a professor 25+ years ago who firmly believed homework was an antiquated, ineffective part of K-12 education. His philosophy was that if the work were meaningful it deserved time during the school day, with support from a teacher. To be honest, he was on the very short list of professors I found less than….inspiring. But now, at a point in my life when I celebrate the rare announcement of “No homework tonight!” from my son, I may not completely agree with that, but I think there is more truth there than I saw when I was an undergrad.
There’s no news here: It goes fast. The kids are growing up, and each year seems to be faster than the last. I think most of us feel that way. But lately, I’ve been more aware of time flying by than ever before. Maybe it’s my oldest heading off to college 2 months ago–or her younger sister starting her own college search this fall–or my youngest starting middle school. Or maybe it’s my own march into my late 40s?
A couple of weeks ago, my high school junior’s school had a spirit day for the Orioles’ playoff run. She is not big on fan gear, so when she could not come up with anything orange & black, I had the answer: in 1995, 3 months before we first had a baby in the house, I went to the game at Camden Yards where Cal Ripken tied Lou Gehrig’s consecutive games streak at 2,130. I bought a t-shirt that says, “I WAS THERE!” and decided not to wear it, but to save it for the right time down the road. It was time: I dug it out of our keepsake collection, and Ms. 11th Grade was all set for school.
Cal Ripken Streak Game T-shirt
A former student–a rabid O’s fan, now in her early 30s and a Facebook friend–saw my post about this and commented: “I believe you told me when I wore mine to school the next day, ‘I’m saving it for my kids.’ So, nicely done.” A warm shared memory, but how in the world has it been 19 years since that game? And how is my student already a teacher and a mom of two toddlers?
Then a college friend’s birthday showed up on Facebook earlier this week, and he made a comment that had not occurred to me: His kids are closer to 30 than he is. I realized this is true for my 2 older kids, as well. 30 is that far away?! I remember teaching The Great Gatsby when I turned 30 myself, along with Nick Carraway, and the charge of sharing his feeling that “I’m 30. I’m 5 years too old to lie to myself and call it honor.” And now my girls are closer to that than I am.
Don’t get me wrong: I’m not depressed. I’m not sad. But I am in awe of how much we’ve done and how quickly the time has passed. And if I can’t put the breaks on time passing, at least I’ll always have this: I WAS THERE.
As I’ve mentioned this summer and last fall, our oldest daughter always thought she wanted to go to a big college, but she ultimately found her ideal match at a small liberal arts college. As a strong high school and club volleyball player, but not a superstar, she decided in 10th grade that volleyball would not be part of her college decision. She recognized that the huge Division I schools she thought she wanted–the Marylands and Penn States–were not going to have a place for her on their varsity-level teams, so she would play intramural ball if it fit her schedule.
Packed for College
But then she fell in love with the small schools. And then a Division III coach reached out to her to see if she might be interested in playing. She was flattered….and interested….but in the end she chose another D III school for academics and campus climate–without having made any volleyball contact there. She told me she wanted to focus on getting used to college life and exploring her new world for a year, but that she would probably try to walk on as a sophomore. As a former high school and club coach–proudly, my daughter’s first coach–and as her fan through 100s of matches, I knew she would probably be able to make that happen–IF she still wanted to after a year….a big IF.
A few nights before she left for college, we had dinner together–just the two of us–and I went out of my way to remind her that she should only come back to playing at a competitive level down the road if she really missed it: not just the rush of a big point, but also the grind of a long practice on some random weekday in October. She was sure she wanted to play sophomore year, but I had my doubts….Anyway, time would tell.
High School Days
Fast forward to her 8th day on campus, a Saturday–I get a text:
(paraphrased) I thought you would want to know that I met a girl who’s on the volleyball team and I have messaged the coach.
Uh, what?! Then, Monday:
Could you send me the Youtube link to the highlights you put together from last year’s playoffs? Coach ____ wants to see them since I can’t try out until Wednesday.
Whoa….Now she’s casually mentioning the coach by name? And she has a tryout?
Wednesday’s text was exactly 2 words:
So here I am, genuinely surprised. And proud. And, most of all, happy that she really is making her own choices.