I've written some pretty big checks in my day.
First of all, my husband and I, already in our 30s, paid for our wedding. That was, at the time, the biggest check we ever wrote.
Then, we bought a house. Wow. That was one big check.
Then I started a business. Besides writing checks to pay my team and for expenses like photography, printing and postage, I have to write checks to the U.S. Treasury and the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. Every quarter. For thirteen years.
In terms of money, actual numerical digits committed to paper, these were all big checks. Really big checks. But, last week my daughter — officially — committed to the college of her choice. After a quick back and forth with her admissions officer about whether she might qualify for work-study at the school's stable (she does!), we took a deep breath and sent them a deposit. The concept of college was suddenly very real. So, in terms of significance and emotional weight, that may have been the biggest check I ever wrote.
Except I didn't.
You see, there wasn't any actual writing or any actual check. I paid my daughter's college deposit online. With a Visa.
I'm a self-confessed "Analog Girl" (a nickname that my man Jim Steinman got such a kick out of — yeah, he and I are besties now). Living in a paperless world is a constant source of disappointment. I actually like ticket stubs and theatre playbills, postcards, mementos, physical magazines. I have files of my old report cards, Dean's List notifications, and term papers. I have all my diaries from the fourth grade on. And photo albums. Actual, leather-bound, acid-free photo albums.
And, no, I'm not a hoarder.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not against the convenience, money-savings or immediate gratification that the digital world gives us. My agency earns at least half its revenue creating websites and email marketing programs for our clients. But, when something has sentimental value, I like that something to be some thing.
My daughter, a determined millenial who "Fips" every day pretty much from the time she gets up to the time she goes back down, has inherited some tiny shred of my predisposition toward actual reality. When she started hearing back from colleges last fall, she was surprised and a little downcast to realize that her acceptance letters weren't letters at all. For the most part, she was notified by email or — even worse — by an email that linked her to a password-protected prospective student portal.
So much for the fat envelopes we all prayed for back in the 1970s and 80s.
The world is changing and — whether we like it or not — it's taking us with it. So, we had better make the best of it. Soon, she'll be 762 miles away and it
just occurred to me that I can rack up a lot of miles if I put her
entire tuition on a credit card. And I know I'll welcome the occasional Skype or FaceTime.
But, I haven't completely surrendered. I'll be buying stamps too. Lots of stamps.
If you've enjoyed this post, I invite you to order the book Lovin' the Alien here.
Like so many other parents of high school seniors, we're in a holding pattern right now. My daughter has been accepted at three of the four schools to which she applied. We're still waiting to hear from number four, but since that fine institution wasn't her top choice, it's a moot point. Although she seems to be honing in on a decision (and a campus visit several weeks ago knocked one contender out completely), she has been thoughtful and patient about it.
Or else she's procrastinating. A more than likely possibility. After all, she's eighteen.
Meanwhile, her father and I (well, mainly I) have been doing a lot of math. For the next four years, not just her higher education expenses, but things like new cars and vacations, are up in the air. Mathematically speaking.
How much will we owe? That's the two hundred thousand dollar question.
Each of the three colleges that have accepted her have offered my daughter handsome merit scholarships.
Me: See, honey? All that hard work paid off.
Her: (eye roll)
But, each school presents a unique and complicated equation. For example, one school has a discount for students from our state majoring in her concentration. Nice, right? But, then they offered her slightly more as a merit award. The two are mutually exclusive and come with their own rules and regulations. If she takes the merit, she has to requalify every year. If she takes the discount, she can't change majors.
And none of this comes without work on our part. The FAFSA is looming, although we won't qualify for need-based aid (like so many middle-class Americans, we can't exactly afford tuition, but we can't can't afford it to the extent that someone else wants to pay it for us). But, we've saved since she was three, plus there are grants, work-study opportunities and the dreaded college loans to consider. And, she is being considered for an additional equestrian scholarship and will compete for several more sponsored by organizations in our town.
And, let's get real, it isn't as though we'll stop working while she's in school. (Don't I wish?!?) Tuition will become another bill that we pay. We're used to that. (Aren't we all?!?)
The good news (well, aside from acceptances and scholarships, which I would classify as great news) is that — in theory — some of our expenses are going to decrease when she hits the road. For example ...
1. Stabling and other costs
Wherever my daughter and her trusty steed end up, we will still be footing the bill for his room and board as well as hers. But, happily, the costs are considerably lower outside our general area. Then again, so is real estate, but we'll probably wait on that.
2. Cookie dough and other comestibles
This fairly expensive so-called "after-school snack" (so-called by my daughter, obvs) will no longer be required. Call us crazy, but my husband and I prefer our cookies cooked. The same holds true for other weekly grocery staples, such as orange soda, fruit roll-ups and cheese poofs.
3. Boots and other necessities
My daughter has only two feet, but a boot collection that somehow continues to grow. In fact, many of our trips to the mall for completely unrelated errands result in a new addition. And, I could make the same observation about leggings, tee shirts, jewelry and more. You may (rightly) view this as an inability on the part of yours truly to use the word "No." But, we have to assume that less shopping together will mean less ... well ... shopping.
Hmmm. Our monthly finances may not feel so different after all.
Now, if I can just make sure there isn't a Starbucks, Panera, Bertucci's or Chipotle (e coli scare not withstanding) near her campus, we'll be all set.
If you've enjoyed this post, I invite you to order the book Lovin' the Alien here.
