Those are my initials. I must write them a dozen times a day. Between signing planners, permission slips, and various pieces of paper sent home from various schools, I feel like I need a rubber stamp. Nothing, though, gives me fits like reading logs. You know what those are if you have kids. They are idiotic papers that must be filled out every night stating which book you read with your child, how long, and then–of course–your initials.
I read with my children every single night. There is no way I could get away with not reading to them. At the merest suggestion of not reading a book there are wild protestations and much writhing on the ground. So it’s getting done. Which is the entire point of doing a reading log. But by the end of the day I have had it. If I don’t kill anyone by 9 pm my day has been a success. After driving eighty places, making snacks, making dinner, cleaning up after dinner, bossing kids about chores, helping with homework, fixing the printer because it’s freaking out again, brushing teeth and breaking up fights about whose turn it is for the wii/trampoline/computer/playing with the cat, I’m done. Done, done, done. I am not getting out a bunch of folders and filling out author’s names and how many minutes we read.
I finally went to the first grade teacher and said, “I’m sorry but I’m not doing the reading log anymore. I hope this won’t affect Ada’s grade but it’s just not happening. It’s the straw that’s breaking the camel’s back.”
The poor, sweet teacher barely knew what to say. It’s not every day that a parent just comes right out and says no to your face.
She claimed to understand.
“Oh, Mrs. W?” she said as I was turning to walk out the door. “Don’t forget to initial her homework binder and this week’s form saying you saw all of the class announcements.”
I wonder if she heard me shrieking as I ran from the school.