316. Homework

 'Mum, I've got homework and it is just like ... like crazy shocking. I mean you're not gonna like it.'

'What do you mean I'm not going to like it? I'm not the one doing homework!'

I don't understand. Baby never ever asks about homework. In fact none of my kids have ever asked me much. I have to admit this is a sore point when surrounded by other mums. A case of bad mother and bad teacher all in one - embarrassing. 

I am also secretly worried in case she does ask for help. Would I even be able to help with homework? And what other mum could I call to the rescue without having to face a lecture on how parental input especially from the mother is crucial in determining the level od achievement bla bla bla? No. I'm sticking to my guns. It's Baby's homework. Baby does it. No mum.

'Mum! You don't understand. Wait till you see it. This is like a total emergency situation. Life or death kinda stuff. In fact honestly mum I'm not sure I should let you see it. You might have a fit, like, you know a heart attack kind of fit. Soooo glad daddy's away this week. He couldn't cope.'

I freeze. I do not know what to do so I freeze. I take the pose with my cup of tea held mid-air.

'I suggest you take something stronger. Much stronger.' Baby says pointing to my cup of tea.

I am unsure if I like Baby turning into a teenager ...

I put on my strict teacher-strict mother look on, the one Muddy Boots calls 'mum's death stare' (which has very little effect on Baby) and sit down at my desk. I raise one finger and wave it. The A4 sheet hovers in front of my eyes then lands softly on the desk surface. It looks plain normal to me. Then I start reading and oh my goodness. Am I having a culture shock? Am I just old? Am I just an old-fashioned bore? 

Baby is watching me, laughing.

'Told you.'

I take an other bit of paper and fan myself. I push the paper away. I cannot read that. That is unsuitable for the mother I am striving to be. 

'You must! Read it till the end.'

The text is full of swear words and insults. Some of them I do not even know! 

'See.' Baby sees that I am shocked and seems pleased about this.

"You see? You see what I have to put up with? Now, you've got to agree: how on earth am I going to write a commentaire composé on this (string of swear words from Baby's mouth - all of them I know)? See? Seriously mum! Like what kind of homework is that?'

'Please do not swear! Please.' I try to look harassed and hope my hair is dishevelled enough. (It should be.)

'Why not?' She looks at me, a satisfied look on her face. It's LI-TE-RA-TURE, mum. LITERATURE with a big L. The one you get the school kids to read.'

I feel tired. She leaves the room and disappears up the stairs, apparently very pleased with herself. I am left on my own with the piece of literature. I do what all school kids do. I turn to Google.