This week, as part of my mom duties, I went to the elementary school and spent an hour in the boy’s class “helping.” The husband and I (that is a lie, this was my idea and the husband was happy to go along) decided to try this so we can better understand the math program. Third grade math is completely beyond me. I figured that time in the classroom might help make homework time less like an episode of “The Sopranos,” with the boy and the dad screaming obscenities at each other, while the dog and I hide downstairs under a desk. The girl is at the barn, oblivious.

Go to the classroom, hang out with the kids, it’s only an hour, no biggie, right? Well, for some reason, that one hour goes by slower than the Bataan Death March. Time stops. I look at the clock 314 times in 10 minutes. This week, I finally figured out why. I am afraid of third grade.

As my assigned hour approaches, I start getting nervous. I wait as long as possible to leave the house and strategically park the car as far away from the school as possible (that way I’ll get in some extra walking, 10,000 steps a day and all). 

My first panicked moment comes when I can’t figure out how to enter the building, one I have visited hundreds of times in the last 12 years. You can open the front door, but are then locked into the space between the two sets of doors (is there a word for that space?). There are three glass doors in front of me, all locked. The third door has a button to press, but also a disabled sign. So, do I only press that button if I am disabled? There’s also a window in to the office, so that the entire office staff can plainly see me as I work feverishly to figure out how to get in the building.

For a minute I lose my cool and just start yanking on each door in turn, but that doesn’t get me anywhere. The nice lady in the office hides her smirk and points. Where, I’m not quite sure. So I try the disabled door again. No juice. Then she points again. So, now I, hmmm, is she pointing at the button? No dice. I look at her and she shakes her head and looks down, wondering how, really, can I be so mentally challenged? No wonder so many kids are struggling in school! Their parents are complete idiots! As my face flushes red with shame, I try again and the door opens. I’m in!

Now I must face this woman through another window, albeit one with a tiny hand hole. She pushes out a label nametag that I must fill out with my name, the time and date. The name I can handle. Suddenly, I am panicked again. WHAT IS THE DATE? WHAT TIME IS IT? I look up and around frantically for a clock, and of course there isn’t one. How many times a day does she witness this desperate search for time? Is she a masochist? Couldn’t the school put a little clock out here? In an act of mercy, she tells me the time. I fail again by filling in the wrong date, which she corrects before giving my nametag back. The whole experience is humiliating, and I haven’t even made it to the classroom.

I quietly enter the classroom, hoping I can slide in unnoticed. No such luck. Little voices cry out, “Look, Mrs. Talley, look!” My son hangs his head, no doubt wondering why his mother can’t just leave him alone. For the next 55 minutes he’ll insist that he has no idea who I am. So gratifying. (Note: the husband does not suffer through this treatment when he’s in class.)

We review a lesson on building a number tree by trying to figure out how many sandwiches can be made with a combination of 3 meats, 2 cheeses and 1 topping. I’ve done the math in my head and am up to 36 or 37 when I learn that the correct answer is 6.

So I walk around “helping” the kids write tables and graphs that include sandwiches with beef, cheddar cheese and pickles. I am very careful not to answer any questions that relate to math. When a little girl asks me if her graph is correct, I blurt out “Do you have any pets?” in a desperate attempt to change the subject. I jump into action when I can do something useful, like pass out papers or staple things.

This teacher is clearly heaven-sent. There she is, looking as peaceful and in charge and as happy as I probably look at the barn.

By now, I am not only sweating, but also shaking my foot 900 hundred miles an hour and trying to slow down my breathing. I try to assess my discomfort. Have I over caffeinated? Nope. Am I coming down with something? Don’t think so.

Then I realize that this place just makes me FREAK OUT. There is no rational explanation. When my hour is up, I RUN out of the classroom. When I do identify this mix of emotions as fear, I feel a little bit better. I can bring a 1,200 pound bucking and rearing horse in from the outside paddocks without even a backward glance, but I am afraid of third grade? Clearly, I have issues.

That evening, I’m calm, having spent several hours at the barn. At dinner, I am repeatedly told by the boy that his class really prefers it when Dad comes in because he is very tall and looks just like Ethan. When Dad walks down the hall, he is greeted by cries of “Hey Coach!” and random hands rise for a fist bump.

OK then, thanks for that boy. Next time it’s time to do math homework, I’m going to the barn.

Elizabeth Howell grew up riding on the hunter/jumper circuit in Massachusetts. Now she is a horse show mom. She holds a day job at The Emily Post Institute and slings horse manure on the weekends.  Her web site is www.sheridesIpay.com.