With My Eyes Wide Shut...

I was informed that I was brave and courageous to go back to college. I didn't really feel brave and courageous. I felt excited and relieved that the time had FINALLY arrived because of all the hurdles to even get to the moment of sitting in my first class, attempting to take in vast quantities of a foreign language (Chemistry) and feeling as if I were attemping a sip from a fire hydrant.

I have a special knack for attempting things that are not entirely possible. When I met with the admissions director in the fall of 2012, she told me I didn't qualify for acceptance because I had a mere 10 credit hours (16 if my AP English Exam score of 5 were rolled in as 6 English credits) and 30 were required for admittance. Being a rational, logical creature, I applied anyway, and the director sent my stacks of papers and application on to a "board" that decides when to make exceptions to the rules. And after a few weeks on pins and needles and finally resigning myself to applying for admittance to the local community college, I got the beautiful, colorful, seriously expensive printjob of a congratulations, you're a St. Ed's student letter. With that crazy sentence, you can safely assume I'm not an English major.

Next up, HOW AM I GOING TO PAY FOR THIS? Um, yeah. We are kinda a "no debt" sort of couple. The idea of school debt is terrifying to my husband, and St. Ed's is a whopping 15k per semester. Uh, huh. So like me, my husband cried when I got my acceptance letter, but for another reason entirely.

I went in to see my assigned financial advisor. OH, NO! She was black. Yeah, I know, that isn't necessarily a problem. Frankly, I prefer black people. However, when you need a black person's help, you also need them not to imagine a) all white people are born into immense wealth with a trust fund the size of Texas, b) everything is easy for white people, c) if it isn't easy for them, it's about time they had it hard. As I sat in the chair opposite her taking in her face and tone and her total LACK of helpfulness, my heart sank. I signed on the dotted line committing myself to a vast sum of money and thought of Ceasar burning the ships at the shore of Britain. I had to succeed now. And get a new financial advisor.

In the meantime, I applied for financial aid (insert nervous 3 week wait here) AND received a scholarship and a grant which at least covered two thirds of my tuition and I figured even I could find some private scholarship to cover the other third, and I could apply in all my spare time during the semester (insert loud hysterical laugh here).

On to registering for classes. So I sat down with all the necessary materials and plotted out how to graduate by spring of '15. By taking 18 hours a semester, going during the summer, never sleeping, I could definitely pull it off. With this bright enthusiasm I went in to see my advisor. He was highly amused, and joined in with equal enthusiasm registering me for a stack of impossible classes. When he bid me adieu he said, "I'll see you by the end of week 1 when you decided to be an English major and change classes." That did give me a bit of a jolt. Me, English major? Fat chance. I was going to take the Science department by storm.

It was a storm all right. Of bad grades, late nights, wee hours of the morning, and a general frantic state of realization, catching up was not going to happen. The object of the game was to try not to fall too far behind. I was drowning. It was like the time I was learning how to ski, my cousin gave a quick demo, tossed me the line, and I sat at the edge of the deck, skis properly positioned, life jacked firmly strapped on, breathing in nervous anticipatiion. My cousin failed to mention that when I fell off the skis, I should simultaneously let go of the line. Perhaps he felt that part was rather obious. Instead when I fell off the skis, I held more firmly to the line, and went half way round the lake taking in a good deal of water, sea weed, algae and passing some very amused ducks while my cousin laughed hysterically and attempted to yell, "let go of the line, Jenny!" Let go of the line? Processing, processing. Oh, let go of the line. And I did, and floated and bobbed in the water, my legs pulled up to my chest for fear something in the murky dark water would pull me to the bottom, while my cousin circled the boat.

No one is circling the boat, coming for you when you're an old person in college trying desperately to catch up and keep up with a vast quantity of kids who in spite of partying regularly, relationship and room mate drama, and piles of school debt, seem to breeze in and out of classes with a sleepy nonchalance that's quite impressive, when you think about it.

But slowly I adjusted. I adjusted to no sleep, intense concentration for hours on end, going to school and for hours on end forgetting I was a wife, a mother, a human. I was just a robot attempting to stay on top of an impossible load. I discovered free tutoring, SI sessions, better note taking systems. Students began asking me for help and requesting my notes when they missed class. There's no fixing feeling incredibly old and experienced when on campus with a lot of people around the age of 20, but I was slowly beginning to fit in..the way the Amish fit in at Superbowl Sunday.

In fact, there were some theories stirring amongst the student body to attempt to explain what a bizarre person I was, sharing jokes with the teachers, laughing hard in a room full of silent students, why I dressed so...modestly, for lack of a better word. (The students should thank me on that score as my body has seen the ravages of downloading six humans. This is a human delivery system that needs clothing). The students knew I was old, but in their minds that meant 27. BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

And my family, where were my six children and my husband in all this? Jon took over the laundry on day one knowing that the possibility of his finding something to pack for business trips had just gone to negative digits unless he saw to it. My children were proud of me. Some more than others. Charles would glow. "Wow, Mom, you are the most amazing mom, ever. What other mother with six kids would study all the time and become a doctor?" Mmmm. Maybe that's because the other mothers still have some remaining intelligence, which I apparently left behind long ago.

I learned to climb out of bed at 4 am, look a bit jealously at my slumbering husband and head out to the dining room to pour over Biology texts and chemistry problems. I learned to listen to the sounds of my family hanging out, laughing it up, watching movies on the weekends, while I bent over my books at my desk and wished for ear plugs so I could focus better. I learned to hold Vivs or Gabe in my lap while working through math problems. I learned to let the kids do as much for themselves as they could.

But did I learn enough to maintain a good GPA? And did I get the private scholarships? Guess you'll have to read the next posting...