Fail

D- didn't into the gifted school. Over two hundred and fifty kids apply to get into the kindergarten class each year. Twenty are accepted.

I didn't really expect him to get in, but for one gleaming moment, I did. That moment of hope made the letter of rejection that much harder to read.

It happened like this:

We went to the initial test one Sunday morning in November. D- was in the second group of children being evaluated that day. The principal, in a suit, told us how the testing would proceed. The children would be called by name and would gather in groups of eight to be evaluated by smiling young women with clipboards. The parents could watch a video. The principal spent some time setting up the video on his laptop, giving us a glimpse into his home life, two smiling girls sitting on a lawn in appropriate dresses.

D-'s name wasn't called. My anxiety levels rose. Eventually he was added to a group and taken off by the stereotypical big-bummed secretary. I watched the video. But I also watched the other parents. Who were these people who thought their kids were so smart?

D- came back, cagey about what the test consisted of. "Did they ask you math questions?" No. "Was it hard?" No. We went home and I told my friends and family that it had been a waste, his name not even properly on the list.

Then, the hope. A month later, we received a letter saying D- had been invited back for a second test. It seems that of the 250 who apply, 28 are called back and 20 (20!) are later selected for the kindergarten. The first test, an IQ test, eliminates the majority. The second test, a sociability test, eliminates the few.

My son had made it past the first test, leaving other kids in the dust. His father and I danced hubristically, envisioning a streamlined career towards space travel or medicine or groundbreaking science. We gloated about the genius of our son.

On a snowy day in January, we returned to the school. We crowded into the lobby with other parents, many of whom looked as surprised as we did, and well-dressed children, milling about asking each other questions. We left D- in the classroom and went to breakfast to celebrate. Victory was at hand. Did you see those other children? Fools, all of them! We drank coffee and rubbed our hands together with glee. When we picked up D- he misbehaved, running in circles in the gymnasium, climbing on the benches. I could feel the eyes of the other parents, their children docilely accepting coats and hats, while D- rolled on the floor in glee.

It's a shoe-in, we thought. We told our friends and family. They claimed to have recognized D-'s genius from an early age.

Then came the letter. On a bloody wait-list.

And I realized that much of my hope had not been about D-, but about my desire to be the recognized parent of a gifted child. That my disappointment was about my own insecurities and not so much about D-. When I read the letter, all I could think about were the other parents, who had watched as D- ran around the school, releasing his pent-up energy, how I would not be able to vindicate the judgment I had sensed in their eyes by showing up on the first day of school and yelling, "A-HA!"

I never thought I would be this parent. I am so glad D- thought it was all a game.