LSAT and meatballs and professional jealousy

On Monday, my 21-year-old son took his Law School Admissions Test (LSAT). In the days leading up to the exam, the household experienced a mild-to-medium level of distress. Son was alternately hyper ("I'm going to law school!") and depressed ("I'm going to fail the test," "No law school will have me," "I'm going to end up a teacher.")
I gotta say: That last comment hurt me.
I am a teacher.
Why don't any of my children want to go into education? Is it because they: a) know I make very little money; b) am frequently chained to the dining room table grading papers; c) hear me complain about the child that makes me want to set my trash can on fire?
As my husband has long said, I am the abused wife of education. I love it; I hate it. It knocks me down; I get back up. It beats me up; I leave it. "Shoot me in the head if I go back to teaching," I said, years ago, when I left the field. I was burned out, my brain fried, my emotions charred. Just couldn't discipline one more child. Didn't want to grade one more paper.
And then, like the beaten wife who returns to her husband because she loves him, I went back.
"So do you want me to use an air dart or a BB gun?" my best friend asked when I admitted I'd signed yet another contract.
***
Next year marks my fifth year back in the classroom. With the exception of becoming a famous author (read: wealthy) or a full-time grandmother or the owner of a Victoriana boutique I cannot imagine doing anything else with my life.
***
OK, so I'm really good at the kitchen thing. Now that school is out for the summer, I've been tying on the apron. My meatloaf and corn casserole dish from Tuesday was well received by the visiting sister-in-law; the family enjoyed Monday's grilled chicken meal. Tonight I'll be serving a steaming bowl of spaghetti with meatballs. The house smells garlicky and subsequently fantastic-o!
***
On a separate note, I'm feeling a bit blue today. A writers' group member will soon go on the book signing tour to promote her YA novel HATE LIST (hitting bookstores in September). I'm happy for her, as I know how much she's desired publication ... but I'm sad for myself because it's not happening to me. Feeling rather childish, actually, as though my big sis has stolen my coveted chocolate bar.
Grow up, Kate!

He's a sly one ...

Last night, around 8:40-something, my son called. A junior in college, he was walking around campus, cell phone to ear. He'd had a bad day. Received a "C" on a Mexican history test. Was unable to get the spring classes he wanted during registration. Still reeling from his little elf's "Dear John" e-mail.
"I need a pep talk, Mom," he said, forlornly. This child, my middle, is predisposed to the blues. Born on a Wednesday, he is, generally, as the saying goes, filled with woe ... . Inherited my depressive tendencies along with my light-colored eyes. He's easily frustrated; he is supremely sensitive.
And so I gathered up some emotional strength, which surprised me, given my stupidly long week at the middle school coal mine, and I offered some sage words. "It's only one test, Ryan. Your grade will not be ruined. And tomorrow head off to the guidance center, speak to your academic advisor. Surely there are still some of your classes available ... ."
He paused.
"Yeah, you're right. Guess I could have studied more for the test."
There will be lots of tests, I told him. You win some; you lose some.
"Hey, Mom?"
"Yes."
"Go to the front porch."
"What?"
"The front porch. Just go there," he said.
With the phone in my hand, I opened the front door.
There was my middle kid, his cell phone to ear, smiling broadly, leaning against the porch column. Pointing at me. Laughing.
Did I mention this one is a practical joker, too?
(And, no, there was no Mexican history test at all. He'd gotten all his necessary classes, too.)
He is a sly one.