"Uh-oh" was
the caption of the picture I sent to my husband. We bought this amazing 80% cacao dark chocolate bar from Cusco during our honeymoon a few months ago. In one sitting,
I finished the whole bar. But it wasn’t just about the “one sitting” though, and it wasn’t (so much) about the Peruvian exotic chocolate bar that I really said Uh-oh. I realized I’ve
been spending weeks, and days, and hours, and every waking minute to go through
my students’ college applications. Every recommendation letter I read, I
learned a bit more about them. Every essay, every activity on the common app
would blow my mind by telling me more about their incredible personalities and their "out-of-this-world" past experiences. 
With every
essay I read, I would glide through a parallel universe; imagining them being
so little, so small; only worrying about what game they would play in the
playground, not even aware that one day they would be applying to college and that
I would be reading their essays. I could picture them asking so many "why" questions to their parents and teachers, struggling through their early teenage years, celebrating when things went their way, and sorrowing about not
getting their expected SAT scores. 
I wish I
had all the answers. But I don’t. I wish I could guarantee them a spot. But I
can’t. I wish they can see all the potential they have within themselves. And I
really hope they will. Because in a year from now, I know they will be far away
probably trying to explain where and WHAT Paraguay is, or stressed out about
their mid-terms. And I will be here in warm Asuncion, with Charlie baby, commenting on their
Facebook status, telling them how much I miss them, and finishing another (hope
so, exotic) chocolate bar while proofreading essays and going:
"Oh-yeah; they've made it."