Brainiac

Jackson Cam.

My middle.

The pleaser.

Excels in school.  The OCD kind of excel.  At any given day of the week, to include weekends, you can find this kid intensely working on the laptop.  School work.  If there is extra credit, Jackson is on it.  He's the type who gets insanely upset if he gets anything less than an A on a test or project.  IF per chance that does happen ... you better believe he's in that teacher's classroom after school having a discussion on why and how that grade is going to change.  I have no doubt he will get into the college of his choice.  I mean, within reason "I'm not trying to get into Harvard, mom" (coulda fooled me).

About a week ago, I'm up early.  It's a Saturday.  I'm leisurely on my computer.  He stumbles in my bedroom, hair standing up in classic bed head fashion.  Falls backwards into my bed and says ...
"THIS IS AWFUL MOM.  IT'S JUST HORRIBLE".  He's got my attention and I'm nervous.
"So every time, every single time .. I have the same nightmare over and over again.  My heart is racing."   Okay ... and ... what is it?  (sitting on the edge of my chair, ready to comfort)

"I got a bad grade!"

Wait.  What?  Like THAT is a nightmare?  Serious ... a nightmare?  Yeah.  That's Jackson's idea of a nightmare.

I sure wish that was my only real stress in life.   I guess I could relate if I had nightmares of the earth being extinct of donuts or cupcakes.  Now that's a legit scare.

SAT's were this week.

We are all anxiously awaiting the score.  Of course, no one more anxious than Einstein himself.