I graduated from college 18 years ago, but my subconscious has trouble believing it.
Every few months, I’ll have the dreaded “I forgot I was enrolled in a class and it’s the day of the final exam” dream.
In my nightmare, I lack three credit hours to graduate. And not just any credit hours — I’m missing math hours.
(I’m sure part of the nightmare stems from my disappointment that I never attempted calculus. At the time, I rationalized that journalists in general don’t need calculus.)
In the dream, I realize that I’ve missed every class of the semester, that I don’t know the material, that the final exam begins in minutes, that my diploma is in jeopardy. And I’m stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic on Interstate 35 north to Denton.
(The traffic part of the nightmare is based on reality. I commuted between Carrollton and Denton every school day for four years. There was always construction or an accident or Oklahoma fans driving south for a football game.)
When I wake up, I question myself. Did I indeed earn a diploma from the University of North Texas in 1993? Am I actually missing three credit hours? Have I misled every former employer about my degree?
For years, I thought that that recurring dream would be the extent of my schoolwork-related stress.
And then we started elementary school. “We” is deliberate because even though our children are the ones going to school and doing the work, we parents take on a huge sense of ownership.
I’ll catch myself talking about “our” kindergarten teacher or “our” fourth-grade year.
In fact, Mrs. Harris often feels like my teacher — I’m relearning what happens in kindergarten through Katie, who is learning from Mrs. Harris. And though I completed fourth grade back in 1981, I sometimes feel like I’m taking it a second time along with Cooper. (I’m certain he’s learning much more than I did.)
All that learning and relearning come with a side of tension.
Cooper is preparing for reading and math TAKS tests with weekly online homework. He must earn a 90 percent on each lesson before he can continue.
He works at the kitchen table, and I hover as nonchalantly as possible, partly because parents must document the grade for each section and partly because I’m anxious to know how he’s doing.
Online tests are tricky for Cooper — and many other students with dyslexia — and sometimes he requires two or three tries to achieve a 90. He gets understandably agitated when two wrong questions force him to start from the beginning — with all new questions.
This week, he aced all eight sections on the first try. I’m not sure which one of us was more relieved.
We shared the same relief when he completed a 3-D house as part of a monthlong book report and project.
Each fourth-grader was required to read a mystery novel and create a house related to the book. The house needed flaps that would convey information about the book.
Cooper chose a kid-friendly John Grisham novel to read; when he finished, he decided to build a courthouse. The project was definitely his — the sketch, the flaps disguised as windows and a door, the construction, the hand-drawn American flag and scales of justice.
Still, he required my help — to search for the materials, to get to the store to buy a block of Styrofoam, to determine how to force paper, cardboard and foam to stick together.
When the final column was fastened with a toothpick, we both cheered. We stood back and admired the finished product. We sighed with shared relief.
We have many more years of schoolwork together. Many more years of stress related to deadlines and tests and papers followed by satisfaction from work well done. Who knows — maybe he’ll even teach me calculus.
Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. Email her at tyradamm@gmail.com.
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