My youngest is a worrier.
He gets it from me.
I try not to show it, but I am a worrier.
So when he announced, at dinner tonight, that he had received his PSAT scores, I waited.
He paused. He said his score.
I said, “Great job.”
“Well, I did better than last year. I really improved in math, but not so much in reading.” The irony not lost on me (his reading teacher mother) sitting beside him.
“Great… that is the goal… improvement,” I respond truly meaning every word. He looks over at me trying to see if my sincerity is real.
He looks back at his dinner and continues to eat. A sign that his worry is gone… for the moment.
“So how much more does he need to improve by the time he takes the SATs?” My non-educator, often oblivious, well meaning husband asks.
I shoot daggers through my eyes, across the table as rapidly as they will fly. He looks back shocked at my response.
“I don’t know, dad. I’m a sophomore. I don’t need to worry about SATs yet. Right, mom?” He asks looking from one end of the table to the other.
“Nope… no you don’t,” I reply.
Perhaps the worry can be held off for a few more days, or weeks, or even months.