Egad! Exam Time!

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 3^rd grade and 6^th 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. 

Why study when it's so much fun to play?

After restoring relative peace (background murmurs and dark hints) I get to the point. “Your exams email has come”.

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?