Monday, March 28, 2011

Little House on the Prairie Homeschoolin'

I've been working feverishly with the McBrothas to get them ready for pre-school and kindergarten. I have a degree in elementary education, so I should be able to teach my kids, right? Wrong...Homeschooling is great for people who can somehow convince their children that they are going to hell or the rapture will just pop off if they don't sit their asses down and learn. My sons fear no deity...except Daddy, and when home school starts, he retires to another area of the city. I'm trying to pull this feel-good, granola-ass, parents-are-the-first-educators (thanks, Dora)crap outta my ass, and let me just say; it's highly overrated. God invented schools so parents wouldn't end up in Bellview. See, right around age four is when your kid is moving out of that sweet stage and into the I wish I could drop your ass off somewhere until 5 pm every damn day. Those sick, happy stay at home mamas with their flow charts and schedules and effective discipline are supermamas, and most likely were not raised in the hood.
I came from the ghetto, where education is better left to the oldest gang banger in the projects. This clearly, has been the most effective way to educate a certain segment of society. The Gangbanger Griots impart important knowledge like:
1. how to rob people (job skills)
2. how to cuss people out (effective communication)
3 how to shoot people ( hunting skills)
4. how to live off the man and your baby mama ( money management)

I have been successful at teaching them to write each other's name. I suspect a toddler identity theft ring is gonna break out at preschool, if they simmer down long enough to get in. They are spelling words and reading words and writing all over any surface in the house. Now if I could get them to sit down, play quietly, and not bite the pig snot out of each other, I'll say this home-school experiment was worth it. Frankly, I hate all those smug bitches at story time with their sloped-headed, inbred, well-behaved, spawns. I know that when it gets to nut cuttin time, the McBrothas will kick their it-tiny asses and steal their juice boxes; it's just how they roll.

Until the day we get the yea or nay on the youngest McBrotha going to school, I'll just keep trotting out the crayons, duct taping them to their chairs, and threating to beat til their white meat shows as I try to teach them to write their own name.

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