The pressures of making the grade, age five - News - Evening Standard
       

The pressures of making the grade, age five

It has been a six-month, demoralising process of more than 100 hours of tours and interviews, costing thousands of dollars in lost work time. But this past weekend, like other New Yorkers, we got the school acceptance and rejection letters. Our five-year-old twin sons scraped into one of 12 schools we'd applied to for this September. Just.

Frankly, we were lucky to get in anywhere. What people say about trying to get your kids into private school in New York is not just true: it's worse.

I have never experienced such a farcical and draining few months. I actually missed my grandmother's funeral in England to be at a school interview, only to find that the school decided it was too small to consider taking single-sex twins.

I have had shouting matches with the husband for not showing up when required (and, no, the picture of him I sent in to prove his existence did not win us a place). Then there was the Benadryl fiasco. By mistake, instead of giving one child a daytime cough syrup, we gave him Benadryl. By the time he got to the interview, he was sleepwalking. "What is your name?" he was asked. He opened his mouth but no sound came out. (No place was offered there either.)

Then there was the sporty school where we asked about diversity. It wasn't listed in their mission statement, which is unusual for New York. There was a long pause. "I'm not going to lie to you. We are not diverse," came the answer.

Next came the more progressive school in Brooklyn. I was hopeful since our boys are lively, arty types. Our eldest sat down for his interview. "Peter gives Mary four of his seven pencils," he was told.

"How many pencils does Mary have?" My son paused. "But where is Peter and who is Mary?" he asked. Grimly, the interviewer told me he was " distracting himself ".

In November, I wearily pitched up with the kids at the British International School of New York. Off they went in a group for their interview. To my horror, when it was over, they emerged leading the others in a rousing chorus of "We all live in a yellow submarine".

No place here either, I thought to myself. But the teachers, many obviously Beatles fans and imports from London, started to sing too. Finally, a staff that didn't mistake spirit for anarchy.

That's when I knew we might finally have a chance. Now we've just got to make up all that lost time and money to pay for it.

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