I'm Lindsay Ferrier, a Nashville writer with a passion for family travel, exploring Tennessee, and raising kids without losing my mind in the process. This is where I share my discoveries, along with occasional deep thoughts, pop culture tangents and a sprinkling of snark. Want to get in touch? Use the CONTACT form at the top of the page.
August 24, 2009
>”Now I want you to run to that door,” I told Punky as I strapped her backpack on and walked her around to the sidewalk beside the drop off lane. “Don’t dawdle. Run. I want to see you go inside those doors before I leave.”
“Okay, Mommy, I’ll try,” Punky promised. We hugged goodbye and she took off, ponytails flying. After running about 30 feet, though, she stopped, turned around, and gave me a soulful look. I blew her a kiss and she blew one back.
“Keep going!” I yelled. Around me, the other drivers were all getting back in their cars. Punky ran some more, then turned around again and solemnly waved to me.
“Keep going, honey!” I shouted. Dutifully, she trotted all the way up to the building. The cars in the lane beside mine began leaving. I was holding up the line.
But I couldn’t leave until I watched my daughter walk through the doors. I craned my neck, watching her pause for a moment as she reached the front of the school. “What are you doing?” I muttered softly. After a few agonizing seconds, she began walking again and disappeared through the double doors.
I turned and saw the traffic director staring at me. Quickly, I climbed back inside my car. As I pulled out onto the road, I burst into tears.
Drop off has been the hardest part of kindergarten for me (yes, harder even than pick-up). I hate watching my daughter run up the long avenue toward her school. I hate having to trust that she’s made it to class, without actually seeing her get there. The school is so big and she’s so small, and I’ve worked so hard to keep her safe these last five years. How can I simply walk away without knowing beyond a doubt that she’s gotten where she needs to be?
Later that morning as I moped around the house, I realized that I’m simply beginning the long and difficult process of Letting Go.
It is at last time for me to stand back and trust that I have taught my daughter well enough to let her take her first baby step in making her own way.
In our case, it starts with me standing in the drop-off line as she leaves me and runs toward school. It will continue over the next 13 years in a thousand different ways, big and small, as I take her to her first sleepover, help her pack for an overnight field trip, watch her leave for her first date, hand her the keys to the family car, and finally, see her off to college.
I know that letting my daughter go to her classroom alone is right and proper and The Way Things Are. I trust that it’s good to give her this small measure of personal responsibility. And I trust her– She is smart and obedient and I know she can do this.
But that doesn’t make it any easier to watch her go.
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