By Rebecca Hastings

There comes a time in every parent’s life when they’re asked to help with their child’s homework. And while we want to be supportive, what we actually become is a human thesaurus, on-call therapist, and Google detective all rolled into one.

It starts innocently enough. Your child plops their backpack down, pulls out a crumpled worksheet, and  says, “Can you help me with this?”

Of course you can. You’re a grown-up. You’ve survived long division. You’ve read Charlotte’s Web. You’ve written full emails using only your thumbs. You are qualified.

Until you’re not.

Somewhere between when you went to school and now, everything changed. Suddenly, a single math problem requires a full-page answer. Reading comprehension involves essays and annotations. And your child is sobbing because they don’t understand what the teacher meant by “infer how the character feels.”

You want to help. It’s just a more emotional journey than either of you expected.

Stage 1: Confidence. “We’ve got this.” You pull up a chair, read the directions, and nod like you’re on Jeopardy. You’re calm. You’re collected. You even offer to sharpen a pencil. Things are going well.

Stage 2: Confusion. “What do you mean you don’t need a pencil?” Your child explains the problem using phrases like “regrouping strategy” or “text evidence.” Under the table, you are Googling. Quietly. Desperately.

Stage 3: Tension. “It’s fine. We’re fine.” The child feels your struggle and begins to spiral. You both stare at the page like it’s ancient Sanskrit. Eventually, someone sighs so dramatically it shakes the table.

Stage 4: Bribery. “Finish this and you can have fruit snacks!” You reach deep into your parenting toolbox and pull out the oldest trick in the book: food-based negotiation. It works. For about seven minutes. They’re starting to outsmart you.

Stage 5: Acceptance. “We’re emailing the teacher.” And that’s okay. Because helping doesn’t mean having all the answers; it means sitting beside your child while they struggle, even when it’s uncomfortable. It means saying, “I’m not sure, but let’s figure it out together.” It means letting them see you try, even when you feel like you’re failing.

We want to be the parent who makes homework fun, who prints out flashcards, uses glitter pens, and celebrates each worksheet with high-fives.

But most nights, we’re just trying to get through it without anyone crying. Including us.

The good news? You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to show up, snack in hand, pencil behind your ear, and heart in the right place.

Someday, your kids will remember that you sat at the kitchen table with them. That you made them laugh when they were frustrated. That you were in it with them. And that, more than any worksheet, is what really sticks. 

Rebecca is a published author and former teacher passionate about authenticity, faith, and family. In real life, she can often be found typing words and driving her kids places. Connect with her at RebeccaHastings.net and on Instagram.