When I was in high school and college, I wasn’t very aware of things. I had way too much ignorance. I chose my course of study based on two people telling me at different times that they thought I’d make a good occupational therapist, mostly because I was crafty. There was only one school in the state that had a program for OT, so I applied there. After getting accepted, plus being offered a partial violin scholarship, it seemed to me that was the place to go.
When the paperwork came in the mail to sign up for my schedule, I looked through the catalog and picked out my classes, using the list of class requirements for freshmen pre-OT students. I had no idea how the catalog system worked, or what their symbols meant. Classes were divided into sections, labeled A, B, C, and so on. I thought it must mean you make them match, that all the classes needed to be the same section. So for every class I signed up for, I requested Section A. Nicely coordinated. Neat and tidy. I sent it off, happy to have that taken care of.
When I got to campus the first day and received my class schedule, most of the classes I’d signed up for had been rejected. It turned out, each section letter was a specific schedule. I learned that Section A was M W F at 8:00 a.m. (And I also learned what M W F meant.) So I had signed up for every class at the same time. That meant I spent the rest of the day in long, winding lines in the gym trying to cobble together a schedule with any useful classes for my major. A PE class was required, so I got in line for the physical education department. When I finally made it to the front of the line, most of the classes were filled or met when I wasn’t available. One of the men at the table said I could come and take his class, a soccer class. But I’d never played soccer. That was okay, he said. It was a beginning class. And it was in one of the few openings that would work with my now butchered schedule. So I signed up.
When I arrived at class the first week of school, I found out it was a men’s soccer class. And many of them had played soccer before. It didn’t take me long to learn to attend class without any hair combs or barrettes in my hair, because when the ball hit those, it hurt. Another thing I learned quickly was when there was a pile up on the ball, don’t go there. Stay away. Because one time I didn’t stay back. And when guys who have played soccer before are going for the ball, they don’t care if you’re a girl, or if you’ve never played soccer before, or if you were gullible enough to believe the coach when he said, “Sure, come on over to my class. It will be fine. It’s a beginner’s class.”
Believe it or not, I stuck with it and finished the class. I might have even made a B for a grade. Then two semesters later, I heard a couple of girls talking about not liking the OT program. They were both transferring to go into nursing. I wasn’t liking OT much myself, and hearing them talk about nursing caught my interest. I decided I’d do that too. So I transferred, using a lot of the same credits that I’d gotten with the OT curriculum. But one thing didn’t transfer, because nursing school didn’t require it. They didn’t need my men’s soccer credit.
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Life with Quadruplets
As a mother of quadruplets, I've had plenty of crazy experiences raising "supertwins." I blog a lot of memories about my kids. Sometimes just my thoughts on things. I get those sometimes—when my brain works. Which is about one third of the time.