Your teenager is a tad relaxed about schoolwork. This shouldn’t bother you, because she’s a good student. It’s not that you want your child to stress. But is she underestimating the workload? Does she realize what’s at stake? Of course not.
It’s great that she’s calm. Really! But you just can’t stop thinking that the road to Dead-end U is greased with serenity. Your request for worry beads on your first day of kindergarten was, you realize this now, unusual. But you would like to see a little concern from your kid. Just once in a while.
Today she waltzes in, chatting happily about her day. You ask about homework. She responds airily, “I think I’ve got three tests tomorrow,” as she floats out of the kitchen.
“Three tests?”
“Tomorrow?”
“I think?”
You manage not to say these thoughts aloud. You are too busy keeling over.
Your 11-year-old daughter asks, “Are you ok?” without looking up from her video game. Your 11-year-old son steps over your supine body on his way to get a snack.
“By the way, Mommy?” he calls over his shoulder. “I need an Eskimo costume. By tomorrow.”
You close your eyes. You tell him where to find a hand-me-down shearling coat and his plush whale, because, astonishingly, you never sprang for a plush salmon. You save the time management lecture for later. Fifth grade can wait.
You haul yourself back to your feet, and call after your daughter:
“Good luck with all that!” You laugh gaily. Well played, Mom.
And then your eye falls on a headline from the New York Times: “As Broader Group Seeks Early Admission, Rejections Rise.” You manage not to pull a Fred Sanford, clutching your heart and groaning about the Big One, but you do stagger a little.
That does it. You can’t stop yourself.
You wander over to where she’s studying and feign nonchalance by leaning on the doorframe. You’re too tense though, so you slip and hurt your shoulder a little.
“Ouch!” you yelp.
She does not look up from her books.
“Hi,” you say, waving casually.
She still does not look up.
“Anxiety is a great motivator!” you shriek.
Her head swivels around. “Huh?” she says, pulling out one of her earbuds.
You’ve regained a modicum of self-control. “Oh, nothing,” you smile, and bite your tongue about studying while listening to music. You slink back to the kitchen.
You have recurring nightmares starring Wendy Mogel. The famed scourge of helicopter parents appears nightly in your subconscious, wagging her finger and lecturing you about the blessings of mistakes. You wake up screaming, “Fine, will YOU hire her?!” and kicking at the blankets.
You recognize you’ve lost it.
You’re not the only parent suffering from college hysteria. Recently, you ran into an acquaintance whose daughter is applying. You asked how things are going.
“Oh, great,” she trills. “We took a really low-key approach!” And then her left eye began twitching and her head spun 360 degrees.
Eek.
Back in the kitchen, you tell your son that no, he cannot Krazy glue ice cubes into an igloo.
Your daughter comes in.
“How is it going?” you ask.
“Great!” she says.
You wonder. And then you let go.
She will be fine. She is fine. One of these days, you will be, too.
