Is This the Little Boy at Play?

Admission ticket. Check.
Number 2 pencils. Check.
Water bottles. Check.
Advil. Check.
Diet Pepsi with caffeine. Check.
Bagel with Cream Cheese. Check.

Here is Little Babe, walking to the Ramaz Upper School to take the SATs. He is walking west on E78th Street, from Park Avenue where HOBB and I just dropped him off. The time is 7:44 a.m. Two seconds after I took this picture, he plugged in his iPod earbuds. Five seconds later, a hand reached around and a yarmulke was placed atop his head.

On the way to Ramaz, to keep the adrenaline flowing, we listened to Van Halen, The Police and Rush. We arrived at our destination as "Tom Sawyer" was playing.

This is my youngest child, the curly-haired moppet morphed into a dedicated rock musician without losing one ounce of his innate sweetness, no matter how hard he rocks the cynical vibe.

This is the step before that major step: the leave-taking.

"Are you sure you want to come along?" asked HOBB, skeptical, for I teach Sunday mornings.

I directed an incredulous, acid-infused glare toward my husband. After nearly 28 years of parenting, he has to ask?

I wouldn't miss this moment for anything.

Good luck, Little Babe and to all the Sunday SAT test-takers.

Good luck, young men and women who worry that this test means everything.

I wish for you the insight of Little Babe, which is that while there is the goal of getting a good score on a standardized test and the goal of building a good life, the relationship between the two is entirely unknowable.