This week marked the commencement of my daughter's first-grade experience. In the last three days alone, there have been numerous watershed moments in which her mother, bursting with pride at Ella's newfound independence and at the same time reluctant to relinquish the last vestiges of babyhood in her only child, was forced to confront the reality that Ella, sensing this hesitance, is more than willing to sever the apron strings herself. The first cut came on Monday as we entered her new elementary school building for Meet the Teacher night. My unconscious reaching for her hand was met with a glare and words barely uttered through clenched teeth, "Mom, I will walk beside you, but we will not be holding hands." This with a reminder of her earlier admonishment not to smile at anyone lest they question my mental stability, thus rendering her a social pariah at the getgo.
A second snip, and perhaps the unkindest cut, came early Wednesday morning. I had explained to her the night before that I would not be walking her in- first-graders walk alone. This explanation had been proffered with every expectation that she would balk the next day and I would have to employ my uber-mommy powers of persuasion to convince her that she could in fact make the trek from van to classroom solo. All morning I looked for cracks in her composure, signs that I would have to make the carefully rehearsed speech I was sure was an inevitability. Nothing. Nada. Zip. She sat calmly the entire ride to school, listening intently to the first book in the Harry Potter series as I tried to control my emotions, contemplating that the six pound wonder I had carried home from the hospital was in fact about to enter the first grade. I thought for sure I had her when we pulled into the circle and observed other parents escorting their charges to kindergarten. Not a word. I pulled up to the entrance and responded to Ella's assertion that there was no adult there to extract her from the car with a gentle, "Honey, the nice lady at the door works here. You just need to walk to her and if you need help from there she can help you.", certain this would produce the expected avalanche of tears.
There was no, "But Mommy...", no, "I can't do thiiiis." She simply nodded, grabbed her gear, hopped out of the car, waved and sauntered into the building as if she was born to do this.
And indeed she was. Just as her mother was born to let her, even if she has to force herself to do so through a veil of tears borne of both pride and loss.
