Procrastination

It's Tuesday night, it's 9:03, and my politically astute middle one is at the kitchen table working diligently on a project that was assigned last week. EVERY week, a COW (Challenge of the Week) is assigned by her Language Art (it was called English when we were in school) teacher. EVERY week she vows to complete it over the weekend. EVERY week, the mother threatens that it better be finished by Sunday night, "I will NOT help you edit it if you wait until the last minute." But it's 9:06, and it's Tuesday night, and she's sitting at the kitchen table finishing this week's COW. And the mother edited it and gave helpful suggestions. "Let her fall on her face," an older and wiser woman tells the mother. But it's 9:09, and the mother came home and helped. Maybe because the mother was (and still is) a procrastinator and too well understands the workings of the politically astute middle one. Maybe the mother is just too soft. Maybe the mother is too much of a helicopter parent. Maybe the mother will follow through next week.