I'M IN AN AWFUL STATE. My eating pattern has gone; my sleep pattern has gone; I walk up and down in an agitated manner. Darragh speaks soothingly to me.

"Relax, for God's sake. It's only the Leaving Cert."

In case I am painting the wrong picture: no, I am not doing the Leaving Cert - he is.

Somehow the roles have got reversed. I actually think I am doing it; I haven't done an exam for over 25 years, yet I wake up each morning vividly recalling the last exam I did take. It was an English paper and (obviously it must be in the genes) I had taken a gamble and concentrated on the novel to the detriment of the play.

Well, when I first glanced at the paper I knew the gamble had not come off. And the sweat broke out.

Each morning lately that sweat is breaking out again.

This is my second Leaving Cert year. My other son took the exam four years ago. Then I was naive and gullible. He created an impression of maturity. And, liberal-thinker that I am, I let him make his own decisions.

In fact, when he said he would like the house to himself while he was doing the exam, I booked a family holiday.

Oh God, how I wince now with embarrassment when I think of that time. We came back midway through the exams to hear that he had overslept for one, gone to the wrong centre for another and had not even opened the freezer where I had left well-balanced meals all prepared and ready to be put into the microwave.

So using my female prerogative I have done a complete U-turn. I admit I was quite wrong last time out, and so from being a remote and distant parent I have become a caring attentive mum.

I doubt, however, that Darragh really appreciates my involvement in his life. "She's always on my back," I heard him say to his brother bitterly - "and it's your fault."

My big thing for the year has been the study plan. I used all my persuasive powers to get him to read through Pat Hunt's informative notes and make lists of what he should be doing. There was no response for months, so imagine my jubilation when I found a sheet of paper - admittedly a dirty scrap - with the word "Plan" at the top.

I shouldn't read his correspondence, but I did. "(I) Check out room for piss up. (2) Ring Deirdre to collect for piss up" - and more... he's developing organisational skills, says his father hopefully.

He is ensconced in the best room in the house - very airy, with loads of plants. "No smoking!" I screech as I find cigarette butts among my bizzy lizzies. The eyes fill up and I think I have pushed him too far.

"Now just do your best," I falter, but I am momentarily exhilarated. Even at this late stage I welcome a bit of interest, albeit emotional, in the exam.

"Cantona is leaving United," he tells me.

So I have another month of eating all around me, sleeping sporadically and manically pacing the house. Darragh, meantime, is enjoying the lull before the storm. And the storm, of course, will be another story!