Thursday, March 14, 2013

It Will Hurt Me More Than It Hurts Him

Today is the big day. The day the #1 son finds out if he will be accepted to MIT.

I am nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockers. I want him to get in. Really. I just don't want him to go. Not that I want to hold him back. It's just too far away. He's too young. He's too trusting. I don't want to ship him off to the east coast. To city life. I've been to Boston. I spent a week in Boston. And Boston, you are no Hillmomba.

If he makes it, I have no doubt that #1 will start planning his getaway tonight.

He's always been a go-getter, striding through the world like a miniature adult. That's what the Parents As Teachers lady told us. "He speaks like a little adult!" Always. A little politician, a little used car salesman, a facilitator of relationships and electronics, moving through the adult world on his terms. The only time I ever saw him shaken was when he was four, and I told him his dad would be home late, because he was out looking at 10 acres of land to buy for #1. He was riding in the back of our dark green Ford Aerostar van, in his child seat. I glanced at him in the mirror. He frowned. "But I can't even drive or cook yet!" Not worried that we were going to put him out of the Mansion and set him up in his own place. Just that he needed to learn a couple of skills first.

I want him to be accepted. Really. If he isn't, I will cry. If he is, I will cry. I'm crying right now. He still has that glint of hope in the back of his mind that life is fair. That people who work hard for something will eventually get it. Logically, he understands quotas and demographics and diversity and why a university can't have all eggheads with the same IQs and test scores and extracurricular activities. But emotionally, he still has that glimmer of hope. I, on the other hand, am a cynical hag. Wanting it and being qualified and jumping through the proper hoops in the prescribed time period are not always enough.

Last year, 8.9 percent of MIT applicants were admitted. Women made up 45% of the freshman class. Minorities were 50%. My brilliant, funny, sweet #1 son is neither.

I want him to make the cut. Really. But if he doesn't, it's not because he wasn't good enough.

I love you, sonny. Whatever is meant to be will be.


Sioux Roslawski said...

I know the pins and needles you're perched on all too well.

I will keep my fingers crossed that what should happen does happen.

Hillbilly Mom said...

He did not get accepted. My teaching buddy Mabel pointed out to him that there is a reason for that. One that he may never know.

Being a mathie and all, I kind of wish she had pointed out that the 8.9 percent acceptance rate, times 55 percent for being male, times 50 percent for being a majority...equals a 2.4 chance of acceptance, and a 97.6 chance of non-acceptance. A gambler has to know the odds.

Of course, I still bought three PowerBall tickets this afternoon.

Kathy's Klothesline said...

Oh, sorry he didn't get in. Just means he wasn't meant to go there. Something else is in store for him. Could be something better and he won't know it until later.

Hillbilly Mom said...

I think he's bouncing back. He has earned a couple of other honors this week that took the sting out of his (and 97.6 percent of similar guys') rejection.