It doesn’t get more stressful for parents than this – the terrifying
email from school that says “Portions for the Exam” popping into the
inbox. Anxiety and apprehension set in for
me as I make sense of what should have been 3rd grade and 6th
grade portions, but appear far too advanced even for my age (perhaps my intellect,
actually, I should admit).
I get ready to break the news to the children about
the dates and the syllabus. It’s a little complicated as they are busy bumping
a football dangerously near something breakable and as they break into a dizzy-tripping
run, my concentration wavers. Bawling “No football indoors” I attempt to draw their
attention towards the sheet in my hand. “Now, quieten down because, here’s
something really important.” I wait, anticipating a dramatic pause to break the
news to them. This so-called drama ends up becoming one brat kicking another, the
second attempting to return the favour, a lot of yelling, pulling out of the
football and attempts to demolish parts of the house again, not exactly the
right background for breaking news.
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| Why study when it's so much fun to play? |
Oh ok, so.. said one, as if it was a poorly scripted story;
ya I know that, said the other Mr know-it-all as if he was the sender, wondering
why I was bothering to tell him this.
“Do you know what this means? This means you need to stop playing
around and start studying.”
“But mom, we are studying all the time.” Ya really, I asked
dripping sarcasm.
“How much can kids study? We will fall ill if we study so
much. Well, I even studied like yesterday for like ages.” (Read 10 minutes, 3
days ago)
Never mind that, they are herded into grudging submission to
pull out their books with pained murmurs of freedom, rights of the child etc.
It’s probably my fault I gave all that stuff on rights to them, to read in the
first place! I watched as they attempted
to first find, by that I mean actually attempt to locate their school things.
“What do you mean you can’t find your math book?” “Just
because you have poked your eraser onto a pencil, it doesn’t become a flag, it
can still be used.” “How do you mean that on the prime portions of the text
book you have scribbled smart-aleck doodles just for fun?” “This book is in two
parts? Wasn’t it in one piece when we bought it?” “No the compass is not a
sword” and so on.
After a series of highly unsatisfactory answers, my persistent
dire threats to cancel all their playtime and recreation forever, pulling away
the football, a mobile phone, a pack of UNO cards, a miniature car, biscuit
(now how can you bring that here!) and every other “distraction” in sight, they
finally settle down mutinously to their books.
Silence reigned, for about two minutes. “I’m really thirsty,
can I get some water?” “It’s urgent I need to use the wash”. By the time we are
back after finishing these seemingly unending tasks, it’s been an easy half an
hour. Meanwhile the younger boy, who has learnt to tell time, looks at the
clock. “It’s 45 minutes since we started studying. Mom, we need a break. I’m so
tired; all we do is study. How can you be so hard on us?” Without getting into
the authenticity of this statement, just the pitiful look and big eyes that
accompanied this would be enough to bring out placards of me titled “Tormentor
Mom” across the entire city (public places not exempted).
Meanwhile the elder asks me the question I dread. “Can you help me with this? It seems that
Section 3 in Chapter 4 of my Physics differs slightly from the section 4 of lesson
2 in my Biology text; so how do you think I should answer this question?” As I
look over the mass of words uncomprehending, my brain works furiously for an
escape route. “Your teacher has told us parents very strictly not to teach
stuff at home” (whew, brilliant, a little hurried no doubt).
“Then I can’t study this mom. It doesn’t make sense. What
can I study? I mean, when text books don’t agree with each other, what can poor
children do? There must be a law to regulate this. We can’t do anything. It’s
very confusing. Come Du”. The last addressed to the younger was the signal to
pack up. Dismissing the books and exams from their immediate horizon, they wandered
off into far more entertaining spheres. This show was over. Emerge football, exit
mom. Ahem.
As I gazed at their rapidly disappearing derrieres, it
dawned on me that in the wandering showbiz of parenting, this was nothing but
yet another occasion for me to turn clown.
Exams, what exams?
