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The Good Mother’s Guide to Preparing Your 17 Year Old for the SAT

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Coffee Preparing for SAT

How to Prepare Your Student for the SAT

1. No studying. If a lifetime of education can’t get a person through the SAT, then… whatever.

2. Have the student prepare everything the night before the test:

-choose clothing
-set aside high protein breakfast in fridge (plain yogurt is good)
-pack a bag of snacks, ID, ticket, calculator, extra batteries and no cell phone

3. Make student go to bed by midnight (instead of the usual 2 am fare that keeps him/her sleeping until ten o’clock in the morning)

4. Go to bed late, because you are up trying to get student to go to bed by midnight. This will make you extra sleepy. So important! Set your clock for one hour before student is to arrive at test. You are to arrive no later than 7:45 am.

5. On the day of the test, sleep through your alarm. Get out of bed at exactly 7:44 am.

WAAAAA! [take a private Good Mother moment with the universe, then jar your student out of bed with a loud announcement of the final 30 seconds now available to show up on time. Take note of the uncanny speed with which your 17 year old is actually capable of moving. Save that knowledge for later.]

6. Race to the school (only 1 minute away, thank your lucky stars), try to enter by the wrong door, be chided by security, go to the right door with a hairstyle that would make any student proud of his mother, and deliver student to the SAT.

It’s all good. Student is awake (that counts for something) and couldn’t eat the plain yogurt in the car, because you forgot to sweeten it. You will, for the sake of expiation, accidentally eat the yogurt upon returning to your home (accidentally means the yogurt was sprinkled lightly with granola that has almonds, to which you are—not fatally—allergic).

That’s it. You are officially a good mother, who has successfully prepared your child to take the biggest exam of high school life.

Photo by Deborah Austin, Creative Commons, via Flickr.

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Election Humor: When All Else Fails, Ice Cream

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kittens voting election humor

“I’m a Democrat,” my seven-year-old claimed as he climbed in the car after school.

“Oh, yeah?” I looked around to see if anyone had heard him. I’m not a rabid Republican, but we live in Texas, after all—land of Bush and Perry, the cattlemen who sued Oprah, and lots of anti-donkey bumper stickers. And people here carry guns.

“We’re learning about elections,” Jackson explained. “We picked our parties out of a bowl.”

I thought that seemed strangely similar to how people already pick their political parties, but I kept quiet.

Turns out, the second graders at Jackson’s school were involved in a week-long election unit in which “Democrats” decided between the Cat in the Hat and Arthur the Aardvark as their candidate, while “Republicans” debated the virtues of Franklin the Turtle and Curious George.

Every day after pickup, Jackson gave me updates on the process. He became adept at pontificating about political parties and the priorities for a successful leader—through playing with storybook characters.

Did I mention I love his teacher? This is the dear woman who made Jackson stand on his desk and apologize to the girls in the class after he burped the alphabet. I wonder what she’s doing next year…and the year after that? (One thing I know for sure: she’s not paid enough. Remind me to write my senator about that.)

“We chose Arthur,” he announced on day two, slinging his backpack over the seat. “He’s smart.”

“So, no Dr. Suess for you?” I asked.

“Nope. The Cat in the Hat is too silly.”

I gave him a thumbs up. “Sounds like a good decision.”

When he told me the other party had nominated Franklin, I asked why. “Because Curious George gets in trouble all the time,” he said.

From the mouths of babes.

On Friday of election week, my son and his classmates gave speeches about their nominees in front of the fifth grade, and the older kids decided the winner.

I waited impatiently to find out who would prevail: Franklin or Arthur. It was a tough choice. The Republicans had put forth a gentle turtle with patience and strength of character. The Democrats had nominated a smart, witty aardvark who kept a cool head in times of crisis.

“So?” I asked at the end of the week. “Who won the election?”

“Franklin won,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “Can we go get ice cream?”

I nodded yes and voted for vanilla. My son had learned an important political truth: ice cream, by the bowl.

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Wanted: Parental Potty Patience

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Potty Training Humor Funny Potty

[on a scale from wit to whimsy: Ticklish Funny]

We’re in the middle of my favorite chic-but-cheap superstore when my four year-old gets that look on his face. “No!” I yell, to the consternation of a lady who’s trying to pick out perfect melons.

I think hard…I have a cart full of groceries, no diaper bag, and exactly twenty minutes to pay out, load my stuff into the car, and be at the pick-up line at my oldest son’s school.

I know what you’re thinking. Four years-old and still not trained? Trust me, I feel the same way. We’ve tried everything with son #2:

• the encouragement technique: “You can do it!”

• the peer-pressure technique: “Doesn’t everyone else in your class wear underwear?”

• the shaming technique: “Only babies go in their diapers.”

• and finally, the bribe technique: “If you go number two in the potty, we’ll buy you ANYTHING you want from the store.” (By the way, the price limit of said reward has escalated in recent months. He could ask for a live pony now and I might say yes.)

Nothing has worked. I’m not Catholic, but this sure seems like Purgatory—or at least, one of Dante’s circles of Hades. According to my extensive (okay, two-minute) Wikipedia research, there is actually a level where people are covered in human…never mind.

The other day, I sat in the bathroom across from our little man, doing my best to affirm him. “You can do it!” I said.

Then I got so desperate for victory that I started chanting, “Push it out, push it out, w-a-a-a-a-y out!”

I’m on the edge here, people.

Back to the store. In one of those “can’t believe I’m doing this” moments, I decide that paying for groceries is more important than letting my little angel have another teachable moment.

I can stand the smell for a few minutes. I’m just not sure my cashier will be too happy about it…still, we’re in a part of town I don’t frequent too often, so I’m not that concerned.

I am concerned that this trial of parenting patience and stamina will never be over. That’s why it’s so nice to know that I’m not alone. In my saner moments, I remember that parents have potty-trained their offspring for thousands of years, and they survived the process. Maybe with a few extra grey hairs, but still.

I also know that my son is growing up fast, and he won’t be at this juncture forever. So I’m peddling for patience, gritting my teeth, and shelling out hard-earned cash for glorified diapers.

And I remind myself of a cliché that seems terribly, pun-fully appropriate here:

This, too, shall pass.

Photo by JeepersMedia, Creative Commons, via Flickr.

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