In my little world, the subject of test scores comes up a lot. As the kids have gotten older, ACT and SAT scores are the numbers inquiring minds want to know. After three kids, I still don’t know what a good score is on the ACT. I know their name won’t make the local paper for a perfect score, and they won’t be taking online classes in their pajamas because their score was so low. That’s good enough for me.
The Boy Child is a horrible test-taker. He’s like his mother and freaks himself out on a regular basis. And if we’re ever required to do any public speaking, we sound like we’re about to cry. And by public, I mean more than two people. I’ve never looked at any crappy score on a standardized test he’s taken as much more than a case of nerves. I know he’s smart. I know he works hard at school. I know he will make it out in the world.
The BC has a part-time job at school working for a home decor store. He has found that working for The Corporate Man can wear a man down. He told me about one of his supervisors who makes a big deal out of EVERYTHING, like it’s life or death. Very hard. Very intense. Full attention needed. To move Christmas ornaments from one end cap to the other.
Because I knew exactly the kind of person he was speaking of, and because I like to crack The Boy Child up, I said, “You should tell her that the crap you took this morning was ten times harder than anything you’ll ever have to do on this job.”
And we sat in the car laughing until we cried because it was true, and even though we think this kind of stuff all the time, we don’t say it out loud. We may suck at tests, and couldn’t give a speech without an Immodium chaser, but when it comes to smarts needed to get through an eight hour shift at a dead-end job, we’re way above average.
