June 2022: I’m driving my middle daughter to school on the first Friday of the Junior Cert exams. I know geography and maths are on the day’s agenda, so ask which one is first.
- “Don’t know.”
- “I mean, which one do you have in the morning, and which in the afternoon?”
- “I know what you mean. I’ve no idea.”
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- “Sorry, you don’t know the Junior Cert exam you are sitting in about 40 minutes?”
- “Not my job. My job is to be in the right room at the right time, the invigilator’s job is to hand me the right exam paper.”
I later tell my parents the story. They think it is hilarious. When I was in school, I was ridiculously laid-back about State exams, which had the effect of raising the blood pressure of everyone else.
What comes around ...
Five minutes ago, they were holding your hand on the way to primary school, coming home with schoolwork you could understand, answering questions about their day that didn’t start and stop with just the word “fine”.
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Now, she is facing into the Leaving Certificate exams. And, just for fun, the youngest will be sitting the Junior Certificate at the same time.
A couple of weeks after they finish, the eldest of the three girls – who already has the Leaving Cert, university and several years work under her belt – will emigrate to Canada.
It’s all go in this house at the moment.
Two weeks ago, the Co Tipperary school my Leaving Cert girl attends held a beautiful graduation ceremony for the sixth years, with the theme being, “A Million Dreams for the World We’re Going to Make”.
It resonated, effortlessly taking my wife Deirdre and me back more than 16 years – to October 2008 – when, amid seemingly never-ending appointments with various medical experts, one gestured towards our then two-year-old during an examination and matter-of-factly stated: “You know, she’ll never do a day of primary school.”
It was a body blow.
Devastating.
At the time, we had been worn down by vague and non-committal prognoses by many medical experts, but how we wished that consultant had also couched her words instead of deciding to tell us straight.
Our two-year-old had been diagnosed with a clatter of conditions by then, among the most serious being ocular motor apraxia (a neurological condition with the inability to voluntarily move the eyes), monocular vision and dyspraxia. An autism diagnosis would come later, which if nothing else gave us a box to tick when we were required to fill in a form (rare diseases rarely appear on official forms).
I have written about her once before – when she was 6½.
In early 2013 there was still much uncertainty as to what the immediate future held ... but, by then, she had started mainstream primary school.
In your face, one particular consultant.
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In that piece, I wrote that whatever challenge she would face next, “she’ll meet it the same way she has in her first six years – allowing her infectious enthusiasm and determination to define her, not any medical condition. We couldn’t be more proud of her.”
Twelve years later, we’re watching her – standing beside her friends and peers – celebrating completing their final year of secondary school.
So, maybe there’s good reason why the Leaving Certificate doesn’t feel like the biggest challenge of her life.
Because, well, it’s not. She’s already scaled far higher, far scarier mountains.
It has meant the world has not stopped in this house because there’s a child doing the Leaving Cert. In fact, she didn’t even give up, or even scale down, the one extra-curriculum activity that means absolutely everything – anything related to drama and theatre.
My Junior and Leaving Cert girls were involved in a play performed as recently as May. For weeks before the show, when either child was asked were they studying, a follow-up question was required: apart from lines for a play?
The Leaving Cert student has, however, recently lost the ability to do even the simplest of household tasks. All the usual, everyday rules have gone out the window.
- “Will you empty and fill the dishwasher?”
- “Sorry, can’t. Doing the Leaving Cert.”
- “Are you eating jelly beans for breakfast?”
- “Yes, I’m doing the Leaving Cert.”
- “Is there any chance we can have the kitchen table back?”
- “Sorry.”
Since normal school classes ended, there has been a sudden realisation that we’re now on the final straight. However laid-back you are, the Leaving Certificate is a monster – the fog is clearing and Irish education’s Oilliphéist is coming into view. It is almost impossible to remain calm as it approaches, with the pace appearing to quicken.
Still, we’re taking it in our stride as best we can.
Yesterday morning, I woke the Leaving Cert girl around 8am. Why was I disturbing her when she didn’t have school?
You don’t have school, I said, because the Leaving Cert is a few days away.
Oh, ya. Okay. Fine. I’ll get up soon.
Whatever happens in the next few weeks, we know she’ll meet the challenge like all others. The Leaving Cert won’t define her.
We couldn’t be prouder of her.
