Saturday morning the doll entered my bedroom and shook me awake. “Mom, time to get up” she said. At first, my groggy brain was confused by her action. Lifting my head from my pillow I turned my head and took a glance a my alarm clock before saying, “Not yet” and then closed my eyes again. “I don’t want to be late” she replied. “Not yet,” I replied and refused to budge until absolutely necessary.
Across my area, eighth graders intent on attending a parochial high school, rose early Saturday morning to take their high school placement test. The test is designed to ensure that students are ready for high school academically as well as help determine what classes–college prep or honors, the student should be placed . The test can also determine tuition, depending on the student’s score. Those students who score in the top 3% receive $3000 off their tuition, which has prompted the doll to worry and fret about the test, more than she should have. “Mom, I just want to do really really well” . She explained on our drive to school. “I want you to do your best, whatever, wherever that best lands you is fine with me,” I encouraged, trying my best to help relieve some of the pressure she had put upon herself.
Later when I arrived to pick her up I asked “Well, how was it?” “Eh, my arm is killing me from writing so fast”. Her girlfriend smiled at me and said, “Oh yeah, mine too”. “Mom I finished the writing part early so I went back to make a few corrections and had just erased a big section when they called ‘time’. I just started crying then…” “Aw…” I replied. “Thankfully we were given a fifteen minute break so my friends helped me calm down”. Otherwise how was the test? As hard as you thought?” I asked. “Math wasn’t as difficult as I thought except on quantitative because they wouldn’t let us use our calculators. The other ones weren’t too bad, except where I erased my answers..” She explained shaking her head.
We left a short time later and after dropping off her friend I confessed, I need you to go shopping with me this afternoon.” “Mom I’d rather just go home”. She confessed. “Sorry, we’re out and about” I said and continued on until we arrived at the school’s uniform shop. “Now that you’ve expressed your desire to be an “Irish”, it’s about time you dressed like one” I said, as we perished the limited selection of shirts. Ten minutes later we were on our way home, my doll, a baby Irish in the making.