Even though it’s March, my high school senior is still receiving mailings from colleges.

To quote my youngest daughter, “Who was the marketing genius behind this?!”

But for her, the “where to apply” question has been answered, her die has been cast, that ship has sailed and whatever other cliché can cover NO MORE APPLICATIONS. However, “where will she go?” is the question on everyone’s lips from her grandparents to her dentist, and the one that has me perching expectantly on the edge of my seat.

As is often the way with Facebook, College Admissions: How to Survive While Your Kid Waits came through my feed at exactly the time I needed it. Full of commiseration and tongue-in-cheek chuckles, it got me to thinking about what this waiting period really is like. Before the calendar flipped to March, I just used that age-old coping strategy employed by horror film damsels and political candidates alike–I denied/ignored/squashed my apprehension. But as the trees start to bloom, so does my perturbation. Wait, back that up, I’m not really perturbed or filled with dread so much as the suspense is killing me. It’s a lot like waiting for Christmas morning.

Yes! It’s like Christmas morning: the wiggly ants in your pants anticipation, that giddy feeling that makes it hard to fall asleep, the wondering what you’re going to get and when you can show it to your friends. Except St. Nick ends the torture on the same day every year. There’s no “is this the day?!” Yeah, and no one gets their presents four months ahead of everyone else just for making a short list and turning it in early. (I’m looking at you early decision-ers.) Hey, but Santa does make parents foot the bill so this analogy still works on some levels.

Maybe it’s more like sitting by the phone waiting to get asked to prom. The whole “will he or won’t he?” layered over “will today be the day?” Calm down, I’m talking back in the era of landlines and bad perms because of course modern young women don’t have to wait to be asked. I’m just trying to channel the fluttery hope, the endless dissection of what might happen, but this probably isn’t right, either. One rejection letter could transform this “High School Musical” into the blood bath from “Carrie.” Also, I’ve tweaked my own feminism with this example, so let’s just agree there was more wrong with the 80s than just the sky-high bangs, and move on.

Maybe it’s more like winning The Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes! (Oh yes I just googled to see if it’s still a thing, and it is!) That Prize Patrol captures the manna from heaven, out of the blue, gift of it all excitement. I would totally not be against dumping the contents of the paper shredder over my girl to celebrate the moment. But you know what? This isn’t right either. Even though admissions are tough, my daughter has better odds of getting an acceptance than 1 in 200,000,000  because it’s not just up to chance. My girl has worked hard, tested well, and thoughtfully chosen schools. While there are so many wonky factors that go into admissions and fabulous candidates have to be in the rejection pile, too, this isn’t a game of roulette. Also, we’ll be the ones handing over the check so “womp, womp.”

You know what this is like exactly? A continuation of the wild ride that is motherhood: never knowing exactly what is around the corner and meeting that unknown with high hopes seasoned liberally with apprehension. I’m a mother who has loved her daughter with all of her heart since the moment I laid eyes on her. The loving was easy, but navigating motherhood? Not so much. I was so completely overwhelmed and floored by all it took to mother my daughter through childhood, and now here she teeters on the brink of adulthood waiting to see where she can take that next step and I am electric with excitement. All I can do is continue to love her, trust in God that she will end up where she belongs . . . and totally and completely keep ALL of my nervous trepidation to myself. Shhhhh!

-Ellen 

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