Right on Time

First came the letter from Chatham. I need to call them, as I was so excited that someone, somewhere, wanted me, I immediately put down the letter, picked up my checkbook, filled in the amount for the tuition deposit, and had my daughter take it out to the mailbox. Stamp? Check. Sealed? Check. Send that puppy off! They should offer my spot to someone else.

Then came the call from Carlow. It was unofficial, I was told, but with a little pressure, I got a yes. An unofficial yes, but a yes. That was two weeks ago, and the official letter arrived Saturday.

Neither program offered money. That's a problem, as I'm already in debt to the point that I can only sign checks in red ink. It's not insurmountable, but it's a problem.

Every day, I've been sorting through the mail, slowly, and while praying, because the last two schools are ones who do have a bit of money to spread around. Today, there was a letter from Pitt. Five of the six of us were milling about, and I held the envelope in my hand, thinking--I really should send the kids out of the room. This is a windowed envelope. They wouldn't send an acceptance in a windowed envelope, would they? So, perhaps its a letter saying that decisions were coming soon. Or possibly an alert telling me that part of my application was missing. Or a rejection.

I looked across the table at my husband. He smiled. I said, "Don't." I didn't want him smiling when I started to cry. Sage walked behind my chair, and I hoped that he would keep on going. One less for George to shoo up the stairs when I fell apart. One less to try to console me.

I stuck my finger in the corner of the envelope. I opened it just enough to see the salutation. Anything else was under the fold, and I'd have to attempt reading it upside down or take it out of the envelope. There was a reply envelope. That didn't register. I didn't think, "This means a response is required." And there was more than just the one sheet. There was something besides the letter. That didn't register, either.

"It is a pleasure to inform you..." I got that far, then squealed. No, no--I don't think the first sound was a squeal. More like a hoot. Christopher said later that he was sure I was having a heart attack. A few minutes of guttural noise and yelping, and Sage started to dig around in the cupboard for a paper bag so that I wouldn't hyperventilate. The kids started to hug me in turn. Chris first, because he's going to Pitt, too, and he was hoping for my acceptance so that we could help each other some with rides. Sage next. Then Jade. George sat across from me smiling. Still smiling. I heard him say, for the first but not the last time of the evening, "I told you so!" Finally, I found my legs again, got up and rounded the table to hug him. Tight.

Oh, the second sheet. I couldn't read it. I had to hand it across the table to George so that he could tell me that not only did I get a tuition waiver, but a TAship as well. A TAship. They want me to teach. They're going to let me teach. Teach!

Wow.

My mentor's response--well, that's for another post, perhaps. Let's just say that he, too, yelled, hooted, something, in my ear, while I sat there, barely able to get the words out, repeating something to him, though in this moment, I could not tell you what. I know I said thank you. Many times.

There's one app left out there. I'm not so much worried about that now. As a matter of fact, if I get a letter in the mail, I might not want to open that one. I told my husband, "I'm starting to feel like I live a charmed life. It's a little scary." And it is. I have to remember to balance that with an equal portion of gratitude, and I think that should take care of the humility issue.

One last thing: I keep thinking that I'm coming to the game late, but when I think about the writing sample that was the basis of all this, I know I came just when I was supposed to, probably not a moment too soon.

Till later...