Games People Play
So now I’m in the process of applying to local nursery schools for next year. I missed one of the application deadlines.
Do you know why? Because the deadline was November 30th.
When I was applying to college, I applied to a Seven Sisters school. The application deadline was January 15th. I also applied to an Ivy League school. That application deadline was January 1st.
Another local nursery school has a more forgiving deadline: February 1st. They notify you whether you got in during the first week of March. (Here, I should add that the nonrefundable down payment for next year at our current school--in other words, the only school we currently have two guaranteed spaces--is due in early February.)
When I got into college, my school notified me that I’d gotten in before the end of January.
The payment needed to hold my spot in college was approximately one-fourth of what I will be required to pay to hold ONE spot for ONE of my children.
And, as we all know (all 0.3 of my regular readers, anyway), I HAVE TWINS.
I probably shouldn’t count on getting into the March school, though, as I’ve called them twice to find out minor issues like 1) the hours my children would be in class next year, assuming they got in, and 2) how much tuition I would be paying, and they’ve never returned my phone calls.
I’ve defaulted to the old maxim: If you have to ask, you probably can’t afford it.
In the meantime, my brilliant children continue to make me feel guilty for not absolutely getting them into the Very Best School in America, by asking questions such as, “Where do shadows come from?” and then listening intently to my explanation. Later on, they’ll say over dinner, “Light is both a particle and a wave, Daddy.”
They ask so many wonderful questions, it’s exhausting. So exhausting that I’ve had to resort to some tricks.
“Sage,” I say. “Do you want to play a game?”
“Yeah.”
“How about you, Thyme?”
“Yes!”
“Ok, we’re going to play Sleep Study.”
“I want to play Seep Tuddy.”
“Good. Here’s how you play: I’m the subject, and you’re the researchers.”
“I’m the ree-searcher.”
“Good. And I have to be asleep, and you have to monitor my pulse while I sleep. Now, here, you each have to hold one of my wrists, ok? I’ll be asleep, and you’ll be monitoring my wrists, got it?”
“Got it.”
They each grab one of my wrists and stare at it, expectantly, while I close my eyes.
“Don’t let go, okay?”
“Kay!”
I got about 90 seconds of sleep out of the deal, which was enough time for Ty to boil water for coffee and tea without tiny fingers trying to interfere. Not too shabby, if you ask me.
Do you know why? Because the deadline was November 30th.
When I was applying to college, I applied to a Seven Sisters school. The application deadline was January 15th. I also applied to an Ivy League school. That application deadline was January 1st.
Another local nursery school has a more forgiving deadline: February 1st. They notify you whether you got in during the first week of March. (Here, I should add that the nonrefundable down payment for next year at our current school--in other words, the only school we currently have two guaranteed spaces--is due in early February.)
When I got into college, my school notified me that I’d gotten in before the end of January.
The payment needed to hold my spot in college was approximately one-fourth of what I will be required to pay to hold ONE spot for ONE of my children.
And, as we all know (all 0.3 of my regular readers, anyway), I HAVE TWINS.
I probably shouldn’t count on getting into the March school, though, as I’ve called them twice to find out minor issues like 1) the hours my children would be in class next year, assuming they got in, and 2) how much tuition I would be paying, and they’ve never returned my phone calls.
I’ve defaulted to the old maxim: If you have to ask, you probably can’t afford it.
In the meantime, my brilliant children continue to make me feel guilty for not absolutely getting them into the Very Best School in America, by asking questions such as, “Where do shadows come from?” and then listening intently to my explanation. Later on, they’ll say over dinner, “Light is both a particle and a wave, Daddy.”
They ask so many wonderful questions, it’s exhausting. So exhausting that I’ve had to resort to some tricks.
“Sage,” I say. “Do you want to play a game?”
“Yeah.”
“How about you, Thyme?”
“Yes!”
“Ok, we’re going to play Sleep Study.”
“I want to play Seep Tuddy.”
“Good. Here’s how you play: I’m the subject, and you’re the researchers.”
“I’m the ree-searcher.”
“Good. And I have to be asleep, and you have to monitor my pulse while I sleep. Now, here, you each have to hold one of my wrists, ok? I’ll be asleep, and you’ll be monitoring my wrists, got it?”
“Got it.”
They each grab one of my wrists and stare at it, expectantly, while I close my eyes.
“Don’t let go, okay?”
“Kay!”
I got about 90 seconds of sleep out of the deal, which was enough time for Ty to boil water for coffee and tea without tiny fingers trying to interfere. Not too shabby, if you ask me.
Copyright 2005-2010 by Arabella and Trattoria Breve. All rights reserved. 2:06 PM
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