Exam time anxiety for helicopter parents

Ooof. Just one more paper left. One more afternoon of panic-stricken study and one more morning of nerve-wracking suspense.

Already I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. Sense freedom after weeks of rigorous imprisonment in a cell constructed out of square roots, pariyayvachi shabd and human dentition. 

Just Marathi to go — names of yellow fruits, a story about Deendayal and his two lazy sons, a chapter on Mother Theresa — and we are done. Or rather, Aaliya and her classmates are done. 

They’re going to celebrate the end of their final exams with a big swimming-and-football party. I’m going to celebrate by stacking away the books, files and scraps of paper with three scrawled half-words (“This is very, very important mummy. It’s my notes on Life is Beautiful. Make sure it is safe!!!”) that have taken over the house during the last fortnight. Then I’m going to do normal things. Curl up with a fat bestseller and a mug of chai. Plan some meetings. Start the final edit of my new book – which I should have begun weeks ago.

“But,” you might well remark, “Why has it been so stressful for you? You weren’t the one who had to write the exams. You weren’t the one who had to complete an English composition in half an hour…”

And Thank God for that. I’ve never been very good about exams. I was one of those schoolgirls who turned queasy and whey-faced at the very mention of the word. And I remember the great joy I felt when, after I got my MA and my first job, I realised that I was done with exams forever.

Clearly, I gloated too soon. Because here I am again.

This time around, I’m just the technical support. The over-involved mummy hovering in the background. 

So then why do I feel that familiar panic? That need to ensure that all diagrams are revised, that the compass is packed and that I’m around to answer last-minute questions. “What is the difference between bolus and chyme?” or “Is pustak male or female in Hindi?” 

Or to help with a profit-and-loss sum about a hapless egg-seller: Ramesh buys five dozen eggs for Rs 180. He smashes half a dozen. Nine turn out rotten. He sells the remaining eggs for Rs 2. What is his 
profit?”

Clearly, some things haven’t changed. All those decades ago, I distinctly remember I tackled sums involving clumsy egg-sellers and canny fruitwalas. And desperately memorising the gender of Hindi nouns. And studying short stories by Mahashweta Devi about a beloved pet squirrel.

Other things, though, have changed. When I was a schoolgirl, my mother was always around — to answer questions and to provide sandwiches and moral support. My father did his bit by smuggling in goodies from five star hotel bakeries (that we couldn’t really afford).  But essentially, I was the one who studied and sweated.

So why is it that I and so many mothers around me are acting as if we’re taking the exams ourselves? Does it make us dreaded and derided helicopter parents, who hover around their children obsessively? Is my anxiety doing Aaliya any good at all? 

And, most frightening of all, as far as I’m concerned, what will I do next year when all three of my daughters have final exams? How will I manage to be there for all of them?

These are tough questions — certainly tougher than the ones that Aaliya has had to tackle. And I’m realising that my exam as a parent is not about Science and Maths. It’s about common sense and balance. And understanding that detachment is sometimes as important as involvement.