It Came in the Mail

I found myself thinking back to her son when he was 4. A cute kid. I couldn't remember much more, but I did remember thinking the parents were kind of laid-back, back then.

"Is the Ivy League a good fit?" I asked her, genuinely wondering. Big classes, lots of teaching assistants, big-name professors off making big bucks as consultants, intense competition among students scrambling for every inch of recognition.

"I am not sure it is for us," I said. "My daughter is looking all over, but especially at small liberal arts schools."

I got a look of confusion from this overwrought mother. I had the sense that she had assumed that my daughter would look at the Ivies, that there was this shared vocabulary, but, suddenly, I was not speaking her language. And it made me wonder: Was our family heading in the wrong direction?

MY HUSBAND, STEVE, AND I GREW UP in what was clearly a simpler time. He applied to five colleges and picked Reed College in Portland, Ore., far from his New Hampshire home. I applied to three and went to Sarah Lawrence, just outside of Manhattan, a half-day train ride home to Northern Virginia. There wasn't much to it. We took the SATs without first taking a prep course, and we filled out the applications by ourselves, with almost no parental involvement.

I doubt any families in our neighborhood would dare take that route now. College applications, more than ever, "have become a family affair," Steinbach says.

Ever ask teenagers as they begin their search why they want to attend a particular school? You are lucky if they can tell you for sure whether they want to go to college in a city or a small town; whether they want a football and fraternity scene, or something a little more cerebral but still fun. My daughter thought she wanted to study languages and international relations, and continue to play field hockey. I was impressed she knew that much about her goals.

While many seniors need time to figure out who they are and what schools would be right for them, selective colleges often put the heat on them to apply early. This is known as an early-decision application. The deal is, you tell them when you apply that you will definitely come. That's very attractive to colleges; many now admit one-third to one-half of their freshmen classes that way. For students who need to compare financial aid offers, it's almost never an option. So the system tends to favor the students from wealthier communities, such as Bethesda. No wonder that, by the middle of my daughter's junior year, many of her classmates and their parents were already zeroing in on where to send an early-decision application.

While we eschewed the paid consultants, we did go with Ariel to speak with her high school guidance counselor. Then either Steve or I took her to visit several campuses that she wanted to see or that we thought she should check out. In the fall of her senior year, still uncertain about which colleges she liked the best and which ones would accept her, she applied to several schools. We helped her keep track of reams of paper -- transcript requests, teacher recommendation packets, application deadlines -- but she did the bulk of the work herself.

A few days before winter break, Ariel learned that she'd gotten into the University of Michigan, which has rolling admissions. We were thrilled, even as the financial calculations were whirring in our heads. I told her she could stop applying to other schools -- as far as my husband and I were concerned, she'd scored big. But she wasn't sure she wanted to go to such a large school. She finished up a couple of more applications to smaller schools, where she could study international relations and play field hockey.

A few weeks later, she got into the scholars program at the University Maryland and into Dickinson, a small liberal arts college in Pennsylvania that has a strong international program and offered her a spot on the field hockey team. She was still waiting to hear from a few more, but I could feel myself relaxing. It had been a tense year.

Then, in January an attractive green, white and blue brochure arrived in our mail slot. It was from Wilson College in Chambersburg, Pa., one of the few remaining women's colleges in the country. And it was addressed to our younger daughter, Maya, who is in ninth grade.

"Become a Wilson Woman, Independent, Confident, Successful," it said on the cover. "Expand your horizons. Cultivate Your Potential."

I started a new file.

Miranda S. Spivack is a reporter for The Post's Metro section.