College Admissions 101 - Notes from a Coffee at my son's school

     I recently attended an “Applying to College 101” coffee at my son’s school.  For me, the timeline described by the guidance counselor was really helpful, and I thought I would share the highlights.  As the Guidance Counselor stressed, this timeline is not for everyone.  We all know each student is an individual, with different backgrounds, goals, etc.  But for someone, like me, who is trying to guide a first child through the college application process, this info may be helpful.

Freshman year :  Try to take the ACT’s if possible just for practice.  Do well in school for transcript purpose (which is stating the obvious.)

Sophmore year:  Start to check out schools if you happen to be in the area, e.g., on vacation.  Try to take the PSAT’s for practice.  Pay attention to grades and transcript.

Junior Year: 

•      Academics is key this year
•       Take PSAT’s in October
•        After Winter break, meet with guidance counselor to discuss a list of schools (what drives search…Social?  Academic? Size? Rural? City? Specialties?)
•      Start to research colleges on the web, and/or use the Princeton Review.
•         Become familiar with your school’s online college research tool.  My son’s school uses Naviance.
•          SAT’s – take them two times before the summer (March, May or June.)  June might be a good time to take the SAT subject tests because students are also studying for finals.
•          Test prep – students may or may not do this …  This counselor seemed to lean toward doing a test prep course between taking SAT’s junior year (e.g., between March and May.)
•          Get 2 teacher recommendations Junior year.
•          Check out Finaid.org for financial aid info.
•          Take ACT’s if you choose to (some students perform better on these, some don’t.)
•       Tour schools over the summer

Senior Year:

•          Take SAT's in October.
•      Work on 2.5 page essay from common application (Commonapp.org) – many English teachers begin Senior year working on this.

•          Decide if you want to apply Early Action (do not have to attend) or Early Decision (do have to attend and can only apply to 1 school.)  These apps are due around November 1^st.
•          Most General Admission applications should be ready to send by Thanksgiving.

Other helpful hints:  Create a chart to track college applications.   Ask to have essay edited by guidance counselors, English teachers, etc.  Guidance may also help with a mock interview.  Also, many students apply to 2 reach schools, 3 middle schools, and 2 safety schools.

I hope this info was somewhat helpful.  Of course, it’s the tips of the iceberg, but it was a good start for me!

Update and New Pup!

I have not posted in so long, and the cliche' holds true, "the more things change, the more they stay the same." The kids are two years older, I've changed jobs, but I have a new foster pup coming to stay with us on Saturday.

With both kids in High School (one of them driving!) my parenting focus has changed from chef, chauffeur, and therapist to short order cook, talented teen tracker, and private investigator. The kids are definitely more self-reliant, but probably need more guidance now than ever.

I've gone from working as a 4th Grade reading tutor back into the business world as a recruiter for software startup companies. It's challenging, certainly interesting, and best of all...I work from home!

Working from home means I can be around to help out a pup in need, who would have otherwise been euthanized at the shelter in Tennessee. Her name is Kenya, and she is an Anatolian/German Shepherd mix from Tennessee. I think that means she is going to be BIG!

Stay tuned to find out where Kenya ends up living in her "forever home!"

Driving Through Life

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about driving. I recently spent many hours "watching the world go by" at the Massachusetts RMV to get my license renewed, and while waiting for the "next available agent" I realized I've been driving for 30 years! Meanwhile, I recently posted an article on the Boston Examiner about "Why parents are scared to death when their teenagers drive." Simultaneously, I've had many conversations recently with my siblings about my 86 year-old father retiring his car keys for good, before someone is seriously injured on the road.

No matter how you look at it, driving is a rite of passage, either into adulthood or out of the mainstream and into old age. I vividly remember the freedom I felt when I first became a driver. I loved the responsibility of driving to my job in High School, or not needing a ride to choir rehearsal. Currently, as a parent of two teenagers, driving can certainly be a chore (especially when Lil'J and I are combing every craft store on Boston's north shore for Styrofoam balls for his science project!) But, I still get a thrill when I set out on a road trip, that sense of freedom is still burning under the surface.

This history of driving, the practicality of getting from point A to point B, as well as the freedom driving represents, makes it all the more difficult to deal with the challenges we face as our parents age and their driving capabilities diminish.

And yet there is a parallel in life. I imagine I will be incredibly worried when my teens take the road, especially given the statistics on teen driving reported in my article. At this point in life, I also spend time worrying about my father's driving. And I realize that my parents, thirty years ago, were in this exact position -- worrying about their children as well as their own parents. Furthermore, my children, in the distant future, will have to ask me to stop driving at some point in my old age, probably just when their own children take to the road.

Yes, we all know that life is cyclical. But sometimes, you find yourself at the RMV, waiting to do the eye exam and have your picture taken, watching teenagers line up for the drivers test, and giving your seat to an elderly person who's about to renew their license, and it all becomes really clear -- where you've been, where you are, and where you're going.

Who Dunnit at the Ski House?

We rented a beautiful ski house in Maine for February break, which we shared with another family. One night we invited a few families over for après ski featuring burgers and dogs on the grill. It was an ideal evening, with parents chatting around the fireplace (even a token injured skier on crutches - ouch!) and the kids playing down in the finished basement.

The next day, C came running upstairs to breathlessly report, “Someone carved my name into the foosball table! And,” she added, “it wasn’t me!” We called together the 4 kids who were staying at the house and checked out the damage. Sure enough, plain as day, someone had taken a dart and carved C’s name into what we would later discover was a $600 foosball table. “I don’t even make my A’s like that,” C complained.

And so the speculation began…For the rest of the week, whether as a group or individually, we all spent way too much time trying to get inside the head of the kid who had blatantly defaced property and tried to frame my daughter. “Was it someone from the group of older boys? Why would they write C’s name? Was it a boy C’s age? There were 4 of them there. Was it one of the girls?”

Before long, we were all playing detective and presenting different scenarios. And, because we had contacted all the families who were over that evening, it seemed the topic was almost impossible to escape. The “Foosball Table Caper” became the subject of chair lift rides, hot cocoa breaks, and cross-mountain cell phone conversations. “What will it solve if we find out who did it?” one of us would say. And we’d all agree not to talk about it anymore, at least until the next time the topic came up.

And, by the end of the week, what we all discovered – adults and kids alike—was that we really weren’t liking ourselves very much. We had all become suspicious of kids that we were normally fond of. We had all been focusing on the negative aspects of these ‘tween’s and teen’s personalities, and making assumptions about what character flaws would motivate such a sneaky and disrespectful act. And, thinking about each other this way seemed to diminish the good qualities in all of us.

In the end, the “Foosball Table Caper” stands as an important example to me of how one person’s act can lower behavioral standards for a whole community. Suspicion is insidious and made me, at least, doubt some of the kids I know, as well as human nature in general. We never did discover our culprit. But, one thing is certain; I will never become a detective. I don't like second guessing people and questioning their honesty. In the future, I’ll just stick to the game “Clue” and focus on Mrs. Peacock in the Billiard Room with a candlestick. It’s much easier to be suspicious of fictional characters.

Fantasies Disrupted

NOTE: I wrote this ten years ago and just found it on my computer. Here's the answer to the question you will ask at the end: Yes, I still do that in my car.

It’s happening more and more. Reality keeps interrupting my fantasies. It’s like that pre-recorded message from the Emergency Broadcast System that interrupts TV shows, but this show is in my mind: WE INTERRUPT THIS FANTASY TO INFORM YOU THAT YOU ARE A THIRTY-FIVE YEAR OLD WOMAN WITH A HUSBAND AND TWO CHILDREN, AND THIS COULD NEVER, EVER HAPPEN TO YOU!
I’ll never, for example, be a rock star. This is the fantasy I usually have in the car. I’ll drop the kids off at pre-school, take their “Raffi” tape out, and pop-in my own selection.
“Ahhh, my own music!”
I sing my heart-out to Paula Cole, Alanis Morissette, Madonna, Annie Lenox, or better yet, Cheryl Crow. “Jump in let’s go...lay back, enjoy the show...” The music transforms me into a leather-clad, slouchy, cool-chick baring a sleek and toned midriff. On stage, I pour my heart into the microphone. Oh, did I mention I’m really thin, too?
In the audience are old friends and some old enemies, cheering, and dancing wildly: college roommates, ex-bosses and co-workers, my old boyfriend, and the woman he dumped me for. They’re next to Mr. Bugle, the singing teacher who didn't pick me for the select choir. They’re all there, and I think, Ha! I showed you! My voice sounds great. “Everybody gets high, everybody gets low. These are the days when anything goes...” I turn around to smile at the guys in the band -- they’re so talented.
I savor this moment, but I know it’s coming...that high-pitched beeping that precedes the recorded announcement. WE INTERRUPT THIS FANTASY, it says, BECAUSE IT’S TOO LATE IN YOUR LIFE TO BECOME A LEAD SINGER IN A ROCK BAND. FACE IT, the announcement intones, IT AIN’T GONNA HAPPEN.
“Oh yea,” I say to myself, remembering that I just dropped the kids off and need to buy Wisk at the grocery store. Back in scruffy jeans and a sweatshirt, I try to hum, at least to the end of the song, “Everyday is a winding road...”
I really don’t have a problem with aging. I’ve greeted each of my thirty-plus birthdays with enthusiasm. I’m happy to be healthy and alive. I don’t worry about wrinkles, and I’ve always colored my hair, so I don’t care about gray. But leaving my youthful dreams behind is tough. In fact, I’m getting a little obsessed.
My son announced he wants me to be a ballerina.
“Maybe I’ll be one for Halloween,” I told him.
“No,” he said, “I want you to be a real one!”
Well, why aren’t I a dancer now? I ask myself. I took dance for fifteen years of my life. Why did I stop?
Now, I realize that many adventures will just have to stay in my dreams. I’ll never: 1. live in New York City, 2. date a guy who drives a jeep and plays the guitar, 3. go skydiving, 4. hitchhike across Ireland -- just to name a few. And even if I do any of these things, it won’t be the same as in my dreams, because I won’t be doing them young.
I could say that I’m better-off. After all, I’ve done a lot so far. I’ve traveled a fair bit (never enough) and had a complete, successful career before I became a mom. I must emphatically proclaim that I am happy with the choices I’ve made, choices that have led me to a wonderful husband and incredible kids. No, I wouldn’t change a thing, even if I could... But the question is, how do I let go of my fantasies?
Should I modify them to fit my responsible position in life? I guess I can still travel, although maybe not hitchhike, when the kids get older. We could move to New York City after we retire, but it wouldn’t be the same. Skydiving and the Jeep-guy are out of the question. Then there’s always Karaoke... Pathetic!
Maybe I just need new fantasies. I’ve been toying with “Great American Novel” fantasies -- a wise author at her cluttered desk. Myself on-stage, in a nice suit, receiving an award. That would be a good one, although not exactly rock-star material.
Or, there’s always the danger of becoming one of those weird parents who never achieved their personal dreams, so they try to re-live their life through their children. My daughter will become a rock star! Or the dancer! Maybe my son will drive a jeep and play guitar! How strange would that be?
Maybe some fantasies are meant to stay exactly that...fantasies. Or, as Webster’s puts it, “the free play of creative imagination.” (Rather poetic for a dictionary, don’t you think?)
I read somewhere that very depressed people have “too realistic” a view of themselves. Perhaps their lives are so based on the mundane tasks -- driving kids around, buying Wisk -- that they lose hope. Maybe the opposite is true. Maybe people who imagine themselves in grandiose terms -- a rock star or Pulitzer Prize winner -- can better survive daily drudgeries. Maybe an active fantasy life actually makes me a better and happier person. After all, standing in line at the grocery store isn’t quite so bad when you’ve just given a concert in your car.

I’ve decided I like my old fantasies. I’ve become attached to them. I know they’re just silly dreams, but don’t they still, in some way, make me who I am? Aren’t they as much a part of me as my real successes and failures? Letting go of my old fantasies would be like blanking out parts of my life, even though they are just parts of my imaginary life.
I think I’ll keep the old fantasies, and maybe make room for some new ones, too. Like a dvd collection, I’ll add new fantasies, but still watch the old ones. There’s nothing like a good classic for a really long drive.
Through thick lashes, I peer soulfully out to the audience. They are entranced. Disposable lighters flicker around the stadium. "If it makes you happy, it can’t be that bad..." Then, when I hear that high-pitched beep, the start of the WE INTERRUPT message, I just tell the guys in the band, “Hey! Crank it up!”

Pain in the Neck!

It was a morning like any other. I woke Lil’J, who headed to the shower, and I trudged back to my room to change out of my PJ’s. Somewhere along the line…crick…shooting pain from my neck down my back and into my left arm. Just one small movement did it -- pinched a nerve, poked a disc, or maybe even popped a thingamajig. Whatever it was, my head was firmly cemented facing forward, and looking neither left nor right was a possibility.

Okay, so I popped some Aleve and got a heat pack and went about my day. But, my day was tough. Backing up in the car was totally mirror dependant. I survived, and didn’t run anyone over. Laundry, walking the dog, any household chores were completely out of the question. Even talking on the phone was difficult. By 10 a.m. I was already depressed and frustrated.

So, I had a few hours (24) of pain. Slow stretching and deep breathing helped. Plus, I’ll admit it, I have a stash of some really strong muscle relaxants from a few years ago and one before bed did the trick. I slept like a rock and awoke with at least some neck mobility. But my pain in the neck left an impact. This being the Thanksgiving season and all, I couldn’t help but be really thankful that I would not have to endure another day of pain and depression.

My good health brought to mind many of my friends and family who are suffering on a daily basis. People very close to me are battling with Lupus, Fibromyalgia, neck and back pain, not to mention a close relative who just had a knee operation. If I found one day of pain exhausting, imagine what these people go through every day. So, I’m planning to check in on my friends who are having a tough time, and to remind them of their bravery. It’s a helpless feeling, being around someone in pain. But maybe talking, checking in, or just an acknowledgement that they are doing a good job dealing with their pain can help.

Fire in the Driveway

I heard Lil'J digging around in a pillow case filled with candy and I hollered from the next room, "Are you taking your sister's candy?" I knew he had hardly done any trick or treating the night before; he'd been too busy getting in shaving cream fights down the street.

"No, it's not her candy," he responded. "I haven't reached that stage yet." I had to giggle and silently agree. I hadn't reached the phase of Halloween aftermath when I eat C's candy either. We all eat C's candy because she really doesn't like candy that much. I've found that darn pillow case in her room in August, filled with crusty old candy bars and lollipops.

This year was the first Halloween I wasn't home alone handing out candy, while Big J went out with the kids. This year, both C and Lil'J were out on their own (though I did keep tabs on C by making her call me from her cell phone every time she and her girlfriends went on a new street.)

Beginning when they were babies, Big J would take the kids door to door. At first he popped them in a wagon and rolled them down the sidewalk, and later he trailed behind as they raced up and down the streets. Thinking about the old days made me a little sad. This year, each time the doorbell rang, Big J and I felt like an elderly couple answering the door and "ooing and ahhing" over all the little tykes' costumes.

Then I had the idea of pulling our little chiminea out to the driveway and lighting a fire. Soon, we had lawn chairs, the tiki torches, tunes and even a little wine. The night became much more festive! And, when our kids and their friends returned to our house to sort and trade their candy bootie, a crowd of parents gathered in the driveway. Not only did we recount the evening's events, we also reminisced about the Halloween's of recent years, and those of our youth. Somehow shaving cream fights don't sound so bad when I hear stories about my friends egging cars when they were kids.

So, our children are growing and now heading into the Halloween world without us. And while the times are changing, it's possible we started a new Halloween tradition this year. Mental note...next year get more candy and a few duraflames.

Reptilian Boyfriend

A true story I thought of just the other day:

My brothers and sister were long gone to college, and I, a typical sixteen-year old, disliked the resultant boring dinners with just my parents. We sat among empty chairs at the dining room table under the yellow glow of the chandelier my mother had purchased in Venice. Dinners had become unusually quiet, except for when mother and father asked too many questions or, worse, ignored me and talked about people I didn’t know -- other members of their social scene in Westport, Connecticut. I was relieved when my new boyfriend, Tyler, showed up early for our Saturday night date. My parents didn’t much like Tyler, perhaps because of his long, frizzy Peter Framptonish hair or maybe because he was a drummer in a rock band. But in walked Tyler, hair, jeans, jean jacket and all; and when my mother insisted that I finish my meal, Tyler joined us at the table.
The questions were simple: “Where are you going tonight? Who will be there?” But with their every attempt at conversation, my eyes rolled in growing annoyance and my cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
As I scooped up the last of my peas, preparing for my get-away, the conversation at the table halted. I followed my mother’s horrified gaze. Something was moving around in my boyfriend’s large head of hair. Up and down, peeking and pulling back, finally emerging from the mass of wiry curls was a tan and black snake. Like an alien periscope, the snake rose from the top of Tyler’s head, searching the air with its long, squiggly tongue. Curiously, it regarded my parents and the remnants of our meal. (Personally, I was unfazed, knowing that Tyler often let his pet baby boa constrictor play Garden of Eden in his hair -- I’d had to disentangle the poor snake a few times. I had even tried wearing the snake -- it’s warm, smooth movements on the back of my neck gave me a pleasant sort of queasiness. But of any of this, my parents were clueless.)
My mother shrieked, standing, knocking her chair over, pointing toward the door.
“Well this,” my father blurted, also standing, nervously passing his napkin from hand to hand. “This is, well this is unacceptable.”
Tyler reached up and grabbed the snake, painstakingly removing it from his rock-band drummer’s locks. “Oh, I forgot…” he started to say, but my mother’s frantic demands, foot-stomping, and dramatic gestures toward the door forced a quick exit..
My parents turned to me, eyes still wide from shock. I continued sitting at the dining room table, fork in hand, peas on fork. Putting the fork down, I stood to leave.
“God, Mom and Dad,” I said in my typical teenager whine, “You totally over-reacted. How embarrassing…” I grabbed my jean-jacket and huffed out of the house, taking off in the car with Tyler and his snake.
It was a short-lived romance; Tyler was my boyfriend for only four months. My parents, clearly traumatized by the encounter, to this day deny ever meeting Tyler’s snake. They do remember, however, their great dislike for him, and their tremendous relief when we soon broke-up. I wish I could say that Tyler, the snake-toting drummer, had set the boyfriend standard so low that all dates to follow were greeted with open-arms. Unfortunately, my parents didn’t whole-heartedly approve of any of my boyfriends -- that is, until I met my husband. They liked him and he was snake free!