Last Saturday we were still waiting for news.We hadn’t heard from any colleges yet and we knew that admissions decisions had been mailed on Tuesday from one of the schools Chandler is most hopeful about.
“Call me if the letter comes today,” I said as I was walking out the door on my way to a lacrosse tournament with Marley, happy for the distraction. Our mail comes late, sometimes not until five o’clock. I had an image of myself perched on the couch by the front window with my laptop, obsessively refreshing the search for the school’s “accepted” hashtag on Twitter to see how many kids were taking my son’s potential spot, looking up every time I heard a car even though I know the difference of the sound of a passing car and the stop-start of the mail truck.
Chandler called a little after three.
“Mom, a box came in the mail addressed to Dad. Can I open it?”
“Why do you want to open a box for Dad?” I asked my heart sinking that the news hadn’t come.
“I want to see if it has my…”
“You’re acceptance letter wouldn’t come in a box for Dad,” I said cutting him off. It would come in a big envelope addressed to you.”
“Shhh, Mom,” he said clearly frustrated to be cut off. “I got the acceptance letter, but first I want to know if this is the hat Dad got me on eBay.
“Really, Chandler? You got in?” I said tears coming to my eyes.
“We’ll talk about that in a minute. Can you please ask Dad about the box?”
Now I was the one who was frustrated. But also really, really happy.
I put the phone to my chest and looked at Dave. “Your son got in, but he’s more interested in a box that’s addressed to you. Can he open it to see if it’s his hat?”
“Tell him to go ahead,” Dave said rolling his eyes.
“Dad says go ahead, Chandler,”
“Oh good, it’s my hat,” he said. “Yeah, Mom. I got in. Isn’t that great?”
“Yes, Chandler. That’s really great. I’m so proud of you,” I said the tears welling up in my eyes again. If I wasn’t so happy I might have had to kill that kid..
Charlene Ross 