The true challenges of higher education

I'm a pretty passionate person in general (I have strong opinions on everything from the colour of my toothbrush to the colour of my politics), but I have to say that my two defining passions are Law & Order (the show, not the actual concept) and kids.

Really.

I've been watching Law & Order for over half my life and when it ended this year, it was like a death in the family. As a girl, I'd often dream that my father was Adam Schiff and later, that Jack McCoy was my husband (to this day, if Jack were real and willing to take me, I'd have a hard time not forgetting I am a happily married woman). So, when I gave up the idea of a life on the stage and got tired of waiting tables and decided to go back to school, I of course turned to Law & Order for guidance and decided to become Dr Elizabeth Olivet.

Which is, of course, easier said than done, as I barely had a high school diploma and to be Olivet I needed a PhD.

Nevertheless, I dutifully went back to Cegep at the age of 23 to finish off the few gym classes I needed for my collegiate diploma and started undergrad studies in psychology, at the end of which I got sidetracked by my second afore-mentioned passion.

I got pregnant, married, had a baby, liked it so much I had another one, then another and I would have kept going, but since I am also very passionate about ownning expensive baby gear, I needed a better income and so, I decided to (ugh) go back to school after a five year absence. Truth be told, I was growing a bit weary of baking and laundry and going through some hormonal changes too, so it seemed like a good idea at the time. Keep in mind baby M is only seven months old and Big M is four and a half.

I bet Dr Olivet didn't have it so hard.

Forget the stress of homework or trying to find someone to babysit the baby during my classes, the horror, the real, absolute ABOMINATION is going back to school with a bunch of extremely young, extremely pretty, extremely thin, overachieving girls.

I'm telling you, orientation day nearly did me in.

For one thing, I was confronted with the fact that this is the breed of girls my husband is teaching as a young new university professor.

Pure trauma.

For another, although I am the absolute reference when it comes to cool baby gear, I am completely clueless as to what is hip for adults. So even though I had great advice for all my girlfriends who wanted to buy backpacks and school supplies for their kids, I myself showed up at orientation with a diaper bag, since I don't own a school bag (or even a purse, for that matter). I don't think anybody noticed tough, since none of these girls could tell a diaper bag from a grocery bag. But still, it was awkward rooting through the mess of old cookies and disgusting bibs in the bottom of my (hip) diaper bag, to find the only pen in there (a sparkly Cinderella one that lights up when you write).

Then I had to deal with the bad choice I'd made of squeezing into my happening, low-rise designer jeans to not be out-classed by the other girls and then having to ungracefully hike them up all day to (unsuccessfully) try to hide my ungainly muffin top. Seriously, that was not funny, it was bloody tragic.

But wait, I'm not done.

Because after orientation, there was an informal happy hour, so all the new students could mingle and get to know each other. And my dear, dear hubby brought the kids, then promptly forgot about them to talk with the other teachers. But not before I'd nervously gulped down a glass of wine, which went straight to my sleep-deprived brain, making me babble on to the other (half-horrified) girls about life as a mom and even making jokes about (oh God) my hatred of laundry. Then the kids arrived and it was like there were twelve of them! They went straight for the cupcakes and proceeded to smear chocolate icing all over themselves. Then little M started running around (in ever decreasing circles) the French girl in the fashionable white jeans.

I want you to close your eyes now and really picture this:

Me, sweating and tipsy in my too tight jeans, running around my twelve dirty kids trying to keep them from snooty looking French girls in white jeans, instead of exchanging witty banter with the other new students, who were looking on with various degrees of consternation and pity.

I'm terrified that at the next party where I drink a glass of wine or two, I'll start showing off my stretch marks.

And all this was after the talk with the twenty year old secretary of the program, a few months back,  who'd told me, after my four year old had answered the phone, that my little sister sounded very cute. I'd had to explain that my little sister was 28 (and indeed very cute), but that the child who had answered the phone was, in fact, my daughter and, no, I didn't have her when I was sixteen.

The only thing that keeps me going is the fantasy in which I become a famous forensic psychologist and the producers of Law & Order ask me to come on the show and play myself.

Please tell me that could happen, if only I can get through the next four years!!!