My daughter only applied to four colleges. Among her honor student peers in our upscale little town in hyper-educated greater Boston, this is quite unusual. Some girls (and guys, I assume) have applied to eight or ten or twelve or more. All that paperwork is daunting enough. But, the campus visits?
Oh, my dears!
Libraries and lecture rooms, dorms and dining halls. After a while, how do you tell one from another?
Nevertheless, last Friday night found us, once again, heading to a college. In this case, it was one that we had already visited three times and toured twice. In this case, it's out of state. And, in this case, a blizzard here in Massachusetts meant that our late night flight was even later than expected. We got there after midnight.
No big, right? Except that we had to be on campus at 8:00 the next morning for ...
The 75th Annual Hunger Games.
Not really. It just felt like it.
Picture this. Just like in Suzanne Collins' popular dystopian novels (and J-Law's even more popular dystopian movies), game young men and women from all over Panem arrive to compete against each other. I'm not sure what district my daughter would be from — I can't remember, is there one buried under snow and ice? Regardless, these earnest competitors look simultaneously fierce and frightened. Are they fighting for their very lives? No something even more important ...
A full scholarship.
That's right, a "full ride," the magical mystery prize, the holy grail of straight A's and killer SAT's (neither of which, by the way, can my daughter brag about). Having been accepted in October and awarded a nice merit award already, my daughter had been invited to compete for a full scholarship.
(This, btw, created much stress and great angst in my young student. I tried to impress upon her (as did her dad) that it was a "no lose" situation. If she won, it would be amazing! Absolutely amazing. But, if she didn't win and wanted to go to this particular school, she still could.)
We didn't know much about the contest in advance. My daughter had been sent an article and would be writing an essay about it. There were sessions with deans and faculty from her major, and there were concurrent sessions for parents. But, we didn't know how many seniors (or should I call them "tributes?") had been invited. Or how many awards there might be.
Upon arrival, we quickly realized that the odds were not (to quote Effie Trinket, "ever") in our favor. There were 150 students battling it out for 3 scholarships. "Just do your best," I whispered to my girl as the contenders were led from the campus theatre center to the classrooms where they would write their essays. I settled in to hear about the wonderful world of freshman orientation, community service, junior year abroad and, of course, financial aid.
When the Provost welcomed us, he cleared his throat, picked up the mic, raised an arm above his head and — I was so sure — was about to say "Welcome to the 75th Annual Hunger Games!"
But no, he made a soccer analogy instead. At his urging, we all yelled "Gooooooooooooooooooal!", holding the word as long as our lungs allowed. I realized his comparison was better.
Getting that scholarship is a goal — and a fine one — but not life or death. And, as far as I'm concerned, my daughter's already a winner.
If you've enjoyed this post, I invite you to order the book Lovin' the Alien here.
I yelled at my teenage daughter the other night. I admit it. There were several extenuating circumstances, some my fault; some hers; some nobody's, just situational.
First of all, I was worn out. We are under tremendous pressure at work right now; a client's pending acquisition has created a ton of new projects and it's been all-hands on-deck for the past couple of weeks. (This is wonderful news for business, but doesn't really make for the most patient parent after hours.)
My daughter is worn out as well. Like most high school students, she doesn't get anything near enough sleep. And, after almost twelve years of classes and homework (I won't count kindergarten), she's pretty much "done" with school. Attitudinally anyway — hey, we've still got five months to go.
Add to this the concurrence of senior-year mid-terms, a looming scholarship competition, a naughty puppy, car trouble, the season's first significant snowstorm ... no wonder the atmosphere at ye olde homestead was what one might call "fraught."
The aforementioned yelling was in response to something that my daughter had promised to do but was not doing (something that I thought was important, but she clearly did not). It turned out to be a moot point, but that's another story for another less stressed-out day.
For the record, I don't yell very often. Generally, I speak in dulcet, measured tones. But, my daughter would tell you otherwise; she insists that I do. I confess that I often nag, but I don't yell. To me, yelling involves raising your voice. My daughter, on the other hand, thinks that any negative observation or constructive criticism, no matter how soft-spoken, constitutes a "yell." I say, "Get thee to a dictionary."
To yell (a verb) is to say something very loudly especially because you are angry, surprised or are trying to get someone's attention. Thank you, Misters Merriam and Webster.
Definitions aside, I did yell and I'm sorry for it. But, in my defense ...
Is it not human nature to raise one's voice when one has repeated a request so many times that one has lost count?
Is it not natural to become frustrated and to voice said frustration in a "loud and sharp cry" when one's high honors student, for whom English is a first language, appears to be mystified by the simple words, "Do it now?"
Is there not some benefit to helping one's offspring understand that a person should only push another person so far?
I would argue yes to all of the above.
And I would do so in dulcet, measured tones.
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.
