Note to Admissions...

Besides having a lost dog and rotten karma, we are living through one of the worst trials ever to test our resilience on the face of this planet: we have 3 children applying to boarding schools. THREE! 

It's not like the kids haven't been preparing their essays for some time now (admissions officers).  So why does it feel like we've spent days cramming for a test, unshowered, in our pajamas at 5 pm, surrounded by dirty dishes, take-out food, crumpled papers (and a wine glass)?  Why have we exhausted the entire supply of Wite Out -- tape, liquid and pen -- on the Iberian Peninsula?  Why didn't I pay that consultant in Connecticut the exorbitant amount of money he required to manage this process?  And why am I screaming alot?  I'll tell you why... because everything has to be hand-written!  In case you don't have one of your own, a 14 year-old's handwriting is not a pretty sight.  Sometimes the words start out large, then they get very, very small.  Sometimes there are large mounds of congealed liquid and tape white-out re-written in another color pen. Some applications look like they've been written while riding in a motor boat or on the back of a scooter.

One application will require a microscope to read.  But hey, admissions, you asked for it.

Other notes to admissions:

If you ask a 14 year-old athletic boy what he wants to do when he grows up, he probably won't say that he really wants to figure out how to split the atom (like I told him to).  Instead, he'll say that he wants to play Centerfielder for the Red Sox.  And his back-up plan won't be to work as an apprentice for Mother Theresa (as I suggested).  He'll want to be a Rock Star.  If you ask a 14 year-old girl what she likes to read, she's not gonna say, Little Women (like I told her to).  If she's halfway honest, she's gonna say Twilight, or some other piece of romantic vampire chick-lit.

Sure, I probably could have persuaded my offspring to follow my suggestions (with threats, itunes gift certificates and cash), but late one night after I had failed to persuade a single teen; after a certain petulant child explained to me that she or he had answered an essay question with one sentence because one sentence was enough;  I threw my hands in the air and realized that our applications (did I say "our"?) were not going to turn out as I planned.

And maybe a certain child was right:  maybe one sentence was enough...