I am raising a seven-year-old liar. At least, that’s what it feels like. Between the nights spent at the hospital with my mother—which stretched endlessly past eight o’clock—and juggling what should be the simple act of parenting, I discovered last week was, in every sense, a total wash.

I’d been assuming my husband was heroically managing the usual domestic parade of dishes, dinners, and homework. Reasonable, right? I should’ve known better.

It all came unraveling yesterday morning. Trying to look like the archetype of attentive motherhood, I pulled out Oz’s school folder—a thick bundle of papers and promises—and, harried and late for work, I deposited it on the couch with lofty intentions of review come evening.

Evening arrived with the sorts of surprises mothers dread. Eight homework assignments? Not one completed? The embarrassment was real and immediate. An apology email swiftly dispatched to the teacher affirmed my commitment to better vigilance.

But the real kicker came at 8:45 p.m., following football practice and a pit stop at the hospital. Forty pages—yes, forty—of untouched math lay glaring at me from his book. Forty! Bewilderment quickly morphed into quiet fury. Was it the seven-year-old, or perhaps the 46-year-old husband who had let us down?

So here I am, recalibrating our life’s schedule to accommodate this newfound mountain of homework. I’ve searched for a mantra to soothe my frazzled soul. It boils down to this: a woman’s work is never done, and if you want something done right, you must do it yourself.

The inevitable conclusion? I’ll be relearning second grade every night for the foreseeable future.