I am Mom

In high school I earned what is possibly the most insane conglomeration of credits you'll ever encounter. In addition to the college preparation classes my guidance counselor insisted I take, I also had the Secretarial Science ones Mom wanted because as I can still hear her say, "If you can type and take shorthand, you'll never have to scrub somebody else's floors for a living."

Truer words were never spoken but as an offshoot, by my sophomore year I was not only typing all the reports I had to do for the college prep classes, but by my junior year pretty much writing the instructors' lectures verbatim.

When Da Kid was young and started thinking about what he wanted to do when he grew up Hubby and I never pushed him in any particular direction. The decisions were his to make with one exception Hubby and I both agreed on. Da Kid would graduate from high school (or die trying). I added one more: Whatever classes he took, one of them would be typing.

Years later Da Kid's in high school and brings home the yearly booklet with the listing of classes for next year. Most of his schedule was already filled with those that were required, but he had to decide on an elective or two. One of the electives offered was typing.

And that's when the battle began. He wanted to take something fun, but I insisted he take typing, instead. Hubby finally stepped in and stopped our . . . uh, "intense discussion."

"Your mother told you you're taking typing next year. You're taking typing."

Da Kid did, and flunked it on purpose.

When he brought home that year's booklet with the listing of classes in it for the next year — his Senior year — since typing was no longer being offered after another round of "intense discussion," I make him take Keyboarding as his elective. And since Da Kid needed the credit in order to graduate, this time he had no choice but to pass it.

Not that I think he would have failed it out of spite this time, anyway, because with all the reports he had to turn in he'd discovered how much easier and faster it is to type rather than write them.

Since then and over the years, hearing Da Kid click away when he's had a report due has given me quite a bit of satisfaction, not that I've said anything to him about it. He has mentioned from time to time that his employers (first the animal hospitals and now the fire department) were pleased and more than a bit surprised that he has this additional skill. Which was thanks enough.

Da Kid's back in school again. This time it's Emergency Medical Services. He's been working for weeks on a presentation and report due today on IV therapy, and called me last night asking if he could use "The Beast" — this old pc I'm sitting at right now — to type up the report he'd scribbled out by hand.

Da Kid was walking out the door an hour after he arrived. He stopped for a moment before he left, gave me a hug and said, "Mom, I don't think I ever told you how glad I am you made me take typing."