Topic: Parenting

All I Want for Christmas is an A in Tax

I have spent the last week or so walled in behind a fortress of notes, outlines, text books, tax codes, and study guides.  Behind me, the fireplace has been a steady source of warmth, and to my left, the Christmas tree with too few lights and ornaments, looking somewhat forlorn and very crunchy from the heat. As I have sat on the floor behind the wealth of legal publishing companies and in front of my husband’s hard earned money as it floats up the chimney, I am driven.  I want an A in Tax.  I want an A more than I’ve ever wanted an A.  Why?  Why do I want an A in Tax?  Why have I stayed awake so late, and risen before the sun each day to assume my position behind the wall?  Perhaps it is because unlike most courses in law school, Tax is one class with “right” answers and not just theoretical reasoning.  It is a rare opportunity for down-to-earth minds to do extra well.  But no matter why, all I know is I want it, and I want it bad.

I do crazy things like put a turkey in the oven at 7:00 in the evening to force myself to stay awake.  I can’t sleep with the oven on, so I keep studying AMT, OID, EIC, ACRS, and ENE (law school speak for Examples & Explanations).  I study section 61 and 83 and 117 and….and more than knowing these, I know I want an A in Tax.

I go to bed late each night, and each night tired feet walk into my bedroom, no doubt not until I’ve finally dropped to sleep. “Mom, I can’t sleep,”  the youngest whines.  “Okay, so now, neither can I,” I think, but do not say.  She slides in next to me, coughing and clearly congested, as I wrap the covers over my head in a sorry effort to build a wall around myself from the microbes I was sure I tucked in with both of us.  I think about the doctor’s warning of my cell count being low, and I pray, that I will not be too sick to get an A in Tax.  I struggle to find a safe place under the covers, and I try desperately to drown out section 131.  When I finally succeed, a desperate call intercepts my peaceful drift.  “Mom! Where are you?”  She sounded terrified. “I’m right here,” I croak.  “Oh, I was dreaming you were far away.  But you are right here.  I love you.” I wish for sounds of snow…sounds of one more day to study.

Fending off thoughts of discharge of indebtedness income and fears that I might forget to take my calculator to the exam, I doze off once again.  The shadow of my oldest child darkens my door.  His voice calls deeply and annoyed, “Mom! Are you taking me to school?”  The days of the week run quickly through my head—Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday.   I automatically think of Carrie who I met at the cancer center.  I saw her last just two days before she died, and as she gasped for air, she repeated the days of the week again and again.  It was tragic knowing her remaining breaths would be few, yet she was spending them measuring the time.  “What time is it?” I ask but dread the answer.  “6:05,”he says.  “Come back and get me in ten minutes.”  I roll over and long to finish my dream.  But it’s gone.

After the dark drive to the high school, I pull into the garage.  “Mom, I need to be at school at 7:00 today,” my middle child demands.  “Get in,” I grumble, as I put my pajama-clad youngest in her car seat for the ride to drop her sister off.  I roll back out into the dark, not once forgetting how badly I want an A in Tax.  Back at home, my husband pulls in from his overnight shift.  “Oh, Sweetie,” he moans.  He is a morning person, and now in our 17th year of marriage, he knows what the morning does to me.  I look like a groggy, pathetic mess.  He has worked hard all night pulling, lifting and loading heavy things, and he inspires me to take my position behind the fortress and keep working.  So, I force the rules of business expenses and depreciation into their rightful place at the front of my mind.  It takes at least three trips to Starbucks to get me through.  I bake a pumpkin pie as a way of coming up for air, but I end up eating half of it.  I REALLY want an A in Tax.

The days all bleed together because the routine is much the same.  Smashed between it all are conferences, concerts, award ceremonies, trips to the market, and a nagging desire for an A in Tax. I take my seat in the dark of the middle school gymnasium, feeling somewhat sleazy because I’ve brought my flash cards with me.  I have one eye on the musicians and one eye on the information I am desperately trying to digest.  I have no idea if I am at a choral festival or orchestra concert.  With one eye on the cards in my hand, it is difficult to find my child amidst all the performers wearing black.  I look up in time to see my oldest daughter grip the microphone.   She can’t see me, because I am seated in the overflow section—I came in late.  As she sings, I start to cry.  She is tall and lovely, speaking nothing of the beauty in her voice.  I am glad I am behind her when it hits me.  I am alive.

Oddly, this cathartic moment does not fade my desire for an A in Tax one bit.  One might think the revelation of survival, healing and the gift of being there for my children would “put everything in perspective”—help me see that grades are not such a big deal.  But it does not.   I come home, and I take my seat on the floor behind my fortress of other people’s knowledge.  In spite of the many “interruptions” in my days, I remain assured that my bumps in the road (which have been too many this year), will somehow make me better, stronger, smarter, more empathetic, and better able to accept the reality that after all this wanting, I may not… get an A in Tax. 

7 January 2009