Indulge me just one more "my-kids-are-getting-older" post, and then I promise I'll get on to something else. Last week I went to my son’s 9th grade
back-to-school night. The parents follow their kid’s schedule in a
much-condensed day, so that we went to eight classes in about an hour and a
half. I got to start my “day” in a room full of books, the English room. Here I
felt safe and at home. Though I could have stayed there all day and listened to
the sweet young teacher talk about the value of printed (not digital) words, I
didn’t get to stay. I had to uproot myself and move on to a combination talk by
the PE and world history teachers. PE and world history? Together? Jarring,
especially because they were in the cafeteria and none of these things seemed
to go together, but OK.
Then we shuffled off to the speech and debate room, where I
had to imagine standing up in front of a room full of judges and giving a
speech. That made me slightly queasy. Not as queasy, however, as the
next several classes. Honors biology. A room full of creepy, crawly critters
and a teacher who promises this will be the biggest academic jump our kids will
make. I like science in a practical sort of way. I’m grateful for things like
gravity and oxygen and DNA and the universe. Studying science? Makes me queasy.
So does Algebra II. The very nice young teacher explained with great enthusiasm
that the class would be studying functions this year. To me, a function is a
social event in which I get to dress up and get out of the house. Apparently it
also has something to do with math, and he rattled off a number of these functions.
I’m pretty sure I took Algebra II during the Reagan Administration, but he might
as well have been speaking Greek.
And speaking of Greek, we also spent 10 very intense minutes
in Braden’s Latin class. (Don’t even think of calling it a dead language.) The
teacher, a red-faced middle-aged man seemingly fresh off the boat from Italy, had passion
oozing from his ears and an accent so thick I could barely understand what all
the passion was about. The whiteboard was covered with words—I think—that
looked scary and intimidating to even me, a person who loves words more than
chocolate. At one point the teacher started barking orders to his service dog,
who only speaks Italian, and then he wouldn’t let us out of the class, even
after the bell rang, until we could differentiate between a Latin subject and a
direct object.
My son goes to a very good school, and his teachers are
fabulous. But I was still a little freaked out for him. He does this every day?
He goes from conjugating Latin verbs to translating protein synthesis to
working out some sort of function? Every day? Five days a week? I was exhausted
and overwhelmed by 90 minutes. It made me glad I’m old. When we got home, I
asked my husband if he’s relieved he doesn’t have to do that every day. Then I
thought about what my husband does every day. Payroll. Taxes of all kinds.
Hiring and firing employees. Litigious customers. High school probably sounds comforting
to him.
I’m a mom with four busy kids who need food, rides, advice, and
help memorizing poems. I work a little on the side, and I volunteer here and
there. I’ve always got a load of laundry to fold or a grocery store run to
make. But I’m convinced I’ve got the best, easiest job in the world. Please no
one make me go back to high school.
