One and Done

Our family's college search was a lot easier than some. Early on, we knew that we would have a significantly smaller universe of universities to consider. 

First of all, the prospective schools had to offer an Equine Studies program. And not just Equine Studies: Pre-Veterinary. (My daughter decided she didn't want to be a vet the first time a beloved pony was put down at her stable.) We were looking for Equine Studies: Business.

Yes, that's an actual major and an actual, quite viable, career. Believe you me, there's a lot of money to be made (or, in our case, spent) in the business of horses.

Next, the schools had to focus on English riding, not Western. Good-bye University of Montana and University of Colorado, for example.

Then, the schools had to have equestrian teams. And not just "Hunter Jumper." Three-phase Eventing, the triathlon of the equine world (dressage, stadium and cross-country) was our — make that, her — focus. 

And finally, there were some non-horse criteria to take into consideration, believe it or not. The schools had to be co-ed; and they had to be near enough to a city to allow my daughter to see her favorite bands. (For better or worse, when she isn't a rider, she's a groupie.)

According to The Washington Post, there were some 5,300 colleges in the United States. According to my daughter, there were four.

And, now there's only one. 

Having completed the Common App and some very easy supplemental essay, résumé and riding requirements (two of the schools asked for 5-minute videos), my daughter did what every college-bound senior does. She waited. Luckily, she didn't have to wait long. In fact, she knew by early November about two of the schools (the two front runners, as it happened), another by Thanksgiving, and the fourth by January. 

Decisions, decisions.

She had until May 1st to make up her mind, and for a while there it seemed like she was going to take all that time. Once again, I had to remind myself that I'm not her and she's not me. Back in the fall of 1979, I received an acceptance from my first choice (early-decision) school and I never looked back. One and done. As time went by, my daughter knocked one, then two, then three of the four schools out of the running. But, she still didn't pull the trigger.

"Why hasn't she committed?" I moaned to my husband when she wasn't in earshot. "Oh no. Is she going to make a case for a gap year?" Other, less stressed, parents assured me that she would make the decision official when she was ready.

A few nights ago, we were out for dinner with another couple when my phone rang. It was my daughter's mobile, so I excused myself and left the table.

"I just wanted you to know that I'm going to post tonight," she told me.

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"You know."

"Oh." Silence. "What made you decide? Are you happy? Are you excited?"

"Hmm. I dunno."

And that was it. No big deal, no fireworks, no jumping for joy. She hung up and I went back to dinner. Her post simply read the name of the chosen institution and "Class of 2020!" Like so many other huge events in our eighteen years together, this one happened with a lot less fanfare that I expected. Of course, that's more her business than mine. As it should be. And now, the countdown begins in earnest.

From 5,300 to four to one. One and done.

If you've enjoyed this post, I invite you to order the book Lovin' the Alien here.     
 

Uncommon App

Since my now teenage daughter was a tiny little tyke, people — older, wiser, well-meaning people — have warned me that time was not just going to fly, but that it would accelerate, gaining speed and moving faster and faster, blurring by, each year after year, every milestone after milestone.

This past weekend was particularly fast-paced, blurry and milestone-ish.

On Thursday, the two of us said good-bye to the husband/father (and the puppy) and headed to the airport. Friday morning, we toured a college — not just any college, mind you, but one that is currently tied for first place on my daughter's short list (a little "too short," according to her guidance counselor). We were there for about three hours, sitting through a PowerPoint presentation, walking the campus with a student guide, and finally meeting with the director of the school's impressive equestrian facility and my daughter's potential coach.

This was not my daughter's first college visit or even her second or third. But, it was different. 

For example, as the group of us (four prospective students with more respective parents) set off across campus, my daughter was up near our guide not falling behind with me and my sprained ankle. When we went through the equestrian center, she walked ahead with the coach, answering and even asking questions. Our friend, my BFF and the already "been there, done that" mother of three college graduates herself (my Sherpa on this unnerving climb and much appreciated), hung back with me. This wasn't our show. And we knew it.

Back at the house, with remarkably little prompting, my daughter went online and started the "Common App."

The concept for the Common Application began forty years ago. Representatives of fifteen colleges met to explore the benefits of creating a single application that would be considered by multiple schools. Today, supported by online technology, the Common App is "common" indeed. It's used by nearly a million students to submit millions of applications to more than 500 participating institutions.

For seniors (and mothers thereof) it's also a bit of a boogeyman. I was thrilled that my daughter was starting the process, but wondered what she (with me hovering) would encounter.

Each college she's applying to has its own set of questions at the beginning. Most of these are straightforward (Do you have a parent or grandparent who attended? What do you plan to major in?), but some are open-ended and will require more thought and careful proofreading (What first attracted you to this school?).

The Common App itself compresses a lot of information into objective little character-count-limited bits and bytes. This is efficiently designed for this digital world of ours, but it is woefully inadequate if you're trying to stand out as an individual beyond "most this" and "best that." There is so much I wanted admissions officers to know about my utterly uncommon daughter that simply doesn't have a place on the Common App.

For example, she can click "Add Activity" and type in "Coaching younger riders at horse shows," but she runs out of space long before she can explain all that it entails. And there's certainly no opportunity for me to add what I think matters most. Like how much she cares, how kind she is or how much they admire her. Or the time my daughter was in first place (headed for a honkin' silver trophy too) and she was disqualified on a technicality. She was not only composed and respectful to the judges, but she stood on the sidelines and cheered a girl she had mentored on to victory.

There was also the time that she kept her head when a younger rider suffered a bad fall in the woods. Wouldn't that demonstrate her character, her wits and her compassion better than a maximum 100-character (including spaces) activity description?

She was able to add her annual community service work for a local organization that delivers school supplies and backpacks to needy kids. But, I longed to call someone (or all the someones) in Admissions and tell them about the time she contacted the head of the non-profit organization to suggest that they add "student's favorite color" to the information they provided backpack donors. She saw no reason why a girl who loved blue should be stuck with a pink backpack, no matter who was buying it for her.

I don't have an answer. The Common App saves everyone — students and institutions alike — time and money. But with so few schools requiring (or even offering) one-to-one interviews anymore, I feel like we're missing the heart of the matter. 

The hearts of our senior girls and boys.

Oh well, we can't stop to mourn the loss or even to reflect. 

You see, we're moving on to the essay.

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book  Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.

In Her Own Sweet Time

After I had my daughter, I went right back to work. Well, practically. 

I did take about two weeks off completely (fourteen surreal and blurry, virtually sleepless days). But, then I started writing ad copy again, gradually building up my hours and transitioning into halftime home, halftime at the office. By about the six-week mark, I was commuting into the city each day and my sweet child was safe and sound in a family daycare.

I had started the job while I was pregnant. I would be building a creative department for a new agency and it was important to me that my bosses (all men) understood how serious I was about it. In honesty, we also needed the cash. Regardless, it never occurred to me to stay at home permanently. I loved what I did, felt absolutely comfortable giving it my all while giving my new baby all my heart as well. For me, these were never mutually exclusive roles or passions.

Of course, going right back to work made some things a little more difficult. Like breast-feeding. Early on, our pediatrician had encouraged me to switch off between breast and bottle and that certainly made things more convenient. I was also very fortunate; my body adjusted quickly to our new schedule. I nursed my daughter in the morning before we left and again as soon as I got home. After the first few days, I had no discomfort and never spent my lunch hour with a breast pump behind closed doors. (Ugh — thank goodness!) The only real problems I ever had occurred on an early-post-pregnancy business trip, and a single and overdue overnight at the Ritz with my husband. After a wonderfully romantic evening, he slept soundly in the sumptuous hotel bed, while I sat on the cold tile floor of the bathroom, you guessed it, pumping.

All in all, I was lucky though, and I planned to nurse for six months. Less than the fascists at the La Leche League might have liked, but more than many professional women get to. Then, at five months, three-and-a-half weeks (literally four days before I had planned), my daughter stopped. She changed her mind. "No, thank you very much." She simply turned her head away. Clearly, there was more going on in the world than my boob, and she wasn't going to miss any of it.

To say I felt rejection is an understatement. Silly, though. Her natural dismissal actually made my life a lot easier. But, it hurt all the same.

A similar thing happened with her pacifier. My husband and I never had an issue with letting her have a "nipper," as we called it, and we had a healthy stash strategically situated throughout the house, in cars, purses and jacket pockets. But, neither of us wanted her to grow into one of those strapping toddlers you see, greedily sucking and taking their pacifiers out of their mouths to speak because — guess what? — they're old enough to speak. So, we agreed we would wean her off of it at twelve months. Lo and behold, she jumped the gun again, losing all interest a couple of weeks ahead of schedule.

(I won't now narrate a detailed story of her potty-training (because I promised her I never would). Suffice it to say, it involved M&Ms and a Princess Barbie, and she acquiesced  — when she finally did acquiesce — in her own sweet time.)

Nursing and nippers and shameless bribery are all behind us now. My daughter just started senior year of high school. In addition to her course load and exams and training and competitions and a part-time job, she has college applications looming. And that's all anyone wants to talk about. Family, friends, strangers we met on our vacation ... as soon as they hear she's about to turn eighteen, the first thing out of their mouth is the c-word. "Where are you looking?" "Where are you applying?" "Where do you want to go?"

By now, my daughter isn't even bothering to give any updates. "I don't know yet," she replies to every query, not even acknowledging the half-spirited research she's done so far. 

The Common App is now open online and most of the schools on her (extremely short) short-list are accepting rolling applications even as I type. But, she has yet to fill in a name or address, much less outline an essay or even meet with her guidance counselor.

She's not ready. Period. And, I have to bide my time, bite my tongue and wait. She'll get there.

In her own sweet time.

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book  Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.