But the thing that really kinda took my spirits down a peg was the brief conversation I just had with Seth and Lizzie. Matt had a hard time falling asleep last night so he's still sleeping; Seth was enjoying a bath and Lizzie was playing in the bathroom nearby. We were talking about all of the excitement in the lead up to Christmas and Lizzie asked how many more days until Christmas; at the same time Seth asked how many more weeks until Christmas. I right away took this as a moment to, yet again, reinforce what they've been learning over the past year, and asked them "well, how many days are there in one week?"
Simultaneously they shouted out.
Both convinced that they were right. Both obviously wrong.
"Ooo," I shouted cheerfully. "Let's try again...how many days are there in one week?"
For what felt like the millionth time, and with a cheerful voice that felt a little forced on my part, we sang through our little days-of-the-week song and counted up how many days are in a week and they were both so joyful when they arrived at the number seven and somehow knew with even more certainty that this number was right. And we all did a little jig of joy, with Seth happily scooching around on his butt in the tub and all was right with the world.
Not a big deal, right? But I have to admit that these kinds of moments are really hard for me. We've seriously been working on this stuff for so long that it wouldn't be remiss to say that we've been working on it for more than a year. Just last week, during their math lessons, both kids told me how many days were in an week, how many months in a year, recited the days and months, and could tell me the full date. Then this, seriously as if they've never known differently.
It's hard on me at times. Some days, really hard. Just when I think progress is being made...
Then, moments later, Lizzie asked if she could brush her teeth for the day once Seth was out of the bathroom (the kids brush in the mornings, Geoff/I do in the evenings). I said "of course." Then she said, "but I already have brushed my teeth," with a plaintive tone that made it sound like I was telling her to do something over again; like it was my miscommunication that had led to her upset.
I dealt with it well, but on the inside was banging my head against a wall. This happens so often, these circular kinds of conversations.
A few minutes ago, once Seth was out of the bath, both kids gave me a giant hug and skipped, skipped off downstairs to play. Life is great.
But there are days when I think to myself why do I bother? It feels just a little too much for a Monday morning, with the week stretched out ahead of me. It's not even 8 a.m.
I know that learning is a challenge when kids have the kinds of issues mine do. I know this, and these kinds of situations should not be surprising to me, or even upsetting, any more. So why do I just feel like sitting in a lump this morning and having a good cry?