The Cruelest Week of the Year

There are the fortunate few seniors who are accepted to their top choice of college in mid-December.  The rest wait until the last week of March, the cruelest week of the year.

Today our daughter’s letters arrived. Despite the thick acceptance envelopes that were laid upon her desk, the only one that counted was the thin one.  The one that told her that she was not one of the chosen few, the one that despite all that she has accomplished in a mere 18 years, spoke to her in a way that made her head bow and her shoulders heave.  

In the few seconds it took for her sobs to become audible, I saw my two-year old after she lost her favorite doll and my thirteen-year old who was broken-hearted by the meanness of a friend.   I remembered how old she really is when I realized that my 5’1” arms barely fit around the shoulders of her 5’8” frame. 

The silver lining is that my daughter and I share an unshakable faith that we do not walk this earth alone, and that our journeys are sometimes set before us for reasons that may not come clear for a long time.  She will attend the other school that was at the top of her list, the one welcoming her with enthusiasm and the promise of great adventures. 

As she shares with me the wonders of her college years, I will sign the e-mails and the texts with my normal, “Love, Mom.”  Today though, I take solace in that I could still be “Mommy.”