At Least I Don't Have to Worry About Two-Headed Babies

When I was pregnant it was astonishing to me how the mere presence of a rounded tummy would prompt complete strangers to volunteer pregnancy horror stories. These were never first-person accounts, rather something that had happened to a friend's friend's cousin once-removed. But regardless of the degrees of separation, each and every story was relayed to me in all its gory details: "And then the umbilical cord wrapped FOUR TIMES around the baby's neck and turned it the most extraordinary shade of purple." Or, "There she was, only six months along and thinking she had all the time in the world to get the baby's room ready. Who knew that jazzercise could induce labor. Let me tell you, they barely made it to the hospital in time, and the inside of their new car never completely cleared of the smell." And so on. These tales were invariably told by complete strangers, whose thoughts on the matter had not been solicited.

A similar phenomenon is occurring now that I have a son in the throes of the college app process. I don't know how these complete strangers know that I have a son in the throes of the college app process, but they do. They say that horses can smell fear. Perhaps parents of high school juniors emit some sort of unique scent--some combination of panic and nauseau--that proclaims their situation to all the world. How else to explain the college volunteer stories recently volunteered to me: "Can you believe it? 1600 on the SATs and A's across the board and he didn't get into ANY of his colleges. Not even his safety. Last I heard he'd just been promoted to assistant manager at Starbucks." Or this from a woman I met in line at the post office as she waited patiently to send her freshman son's forgotten underwear back to Cornell. "I don't know who's getting in to college these days, but not many people that I know," she said. "Fifteen kids from Brookline High--all eminently qualified--applied early action to Yale, and not one got in. Not one."

My jaws clench when I hear these stories, and all I can do is comfort myself that Starbucks is opening stores at a rate of a dozen a day, so surely there will always be a need for assistant managers.

Where's a methadone clinic when you need one?

If one is on a diet, it’s best to avoid bakeries. If one is trying to kick the crack habit, then certain areas of New York City are definitely off limits after dark. This is not wisdom, it’s simple common sense. Which, it seems, I have taken leave of, or how else to explain that I spent much of the day today ignoring my responsibilities as wife, mother, and sometime employee, and instead spent it nose first in the pages of The Gatekeepers.

If you’re not familiar with it, please, let me fill you in. It’s a brilliantly written account of one year behind-the-scenes of the Wesleyan admissions department. While it was heartening to see the commitment of each and every person in that department, and encouraging to read how they agonized over the applications, it still in the end confirmed my worst fear—that poor A* is at a big disadvantage by being an affluent, happy, suburban white boy who has had no obstacles to overcome in his thus-far charmed life. If I truly loved him, if I were sincere in my wish to help him in his college quest, then I would apply myself here and now to developing a raging drug addiction and having a child out of wedlock.

Clone a Worm Already

A* not awake even 15 minutes before I haul the conversation around to my agenda and ask if he e-mailed his AP bio teacher last night. He groaned. No, he hadn’t, but when pressed said he could possibly speak to him after class. My . . . whoops, I mean his mission is to find out if there are any biology- or physics-related extracurricular activities he could participate in. My husband shakes his head in sympathy. “Hey, couldn’t you just clone a worm or something?” he asks A. The big difference is that he is kidding, I am not.

To the Dark Side

I went in under the most noble of pretenses. It was for you, dear reader, that I drove over to the local Chyten test prep center to be able to report first-hand just what distinguishes them from all the other centers out there. Since I had yet to visit the other places, I had no benchmarks against which to measure the answers to my questions. This information will likely be more helpful later, once I can compare with Princeton Review and Kaplan, but for now, here’s what the good folks at Chyten have to say for themselves:

• Chyten tutors are oh-so-smart. All have masters degrees. All have teaching experience. All are trained in the Chyten methodology.
• For an additional price (roughly an additional $40 per 60-minute session, and $80 per 90-minute session) students can work with a Chyten senior tutor. Senior tutors work with Chyten full time, and have logged more than 2,000 tutoring hours.
• Tutoring takes place in Chyten offices, rather than in students’ homes. The thinking is that being outside the home environment helps the students to focus, and take the experience more seriously. It also has the added benefit of keeping tutor turn-over low, as they avoid the hassles driving to and from private homes.
• Pricing as of this writing: 60-minute private session: $145.00. 60-minute semi-private session: $100. (For rates for senior tutors, add price increases mentioned earlier in this post.)

Even though I just went in to Chyten to gather information, I feel myself starting to weaken. There is a reason my husband doesn’t let me near those “free” weekend time-sharing events. He knows that no matter how much I protest that I’d just go for the gratis vacation/dinner/microwave or whatever happens to be on offer, I’d wind up signing on the dotted line and telling him with shining eyes just how much we’ll enjoy an annual August getaway to the deep south.

To my credit (and my husband’s disbelief), I managed to leave without signing anything. I carried with me a handful of pamphlets and client testimonials and the caution that no matter how well A. did on the PSAT, the writing portion of the SAT could be a real stumper.

Enough IS Enough

There is comfort in a crowd. The more I hear and read about stressed out kids and their stressed out parents, the more comforted I feel. I may lack perspective, but apparently lots of other people do, too. And it's not just parents.
A recent article in the Education section of the Boston Globe — “Schools crack down on academic overload”—gives me some comfort. Apparently, when it comes to academics, “enough” never is. Already-stellar students are doing whatever it takes to become super-stellar. Even if whatever it takes means going against the recommendations of parents, teachers, and counselors. One school mentioned in the article, Boston Latin, has a formal policy limiting a student’s Advanced Placement courses to three per year. Three! I took only one course and it alone had me up late many a night. The students can ask for a waiver, but in the majority of cases the request is not granted. Three cheers for Boston Latin. May other schools follow suit.