A Separation, A Detachment.

She wakes up early, chanting Moooomeeeey, Moooomeeeey from her darkened bedroom. My insides already are working themselves into knots over what's to come:

A separation. A detachment after months of dependence.

I gather her warm, sleepy body into my arms and snuggle silently while we both take what we need of the other - she calmly nurses while I memorize her round cheek and wispy hair; her blue eyes only for me.

As we go about our morning, getting ready for her first day away, I would swear she's behaving as if she knows I'm abandoning her to the care of others. She doesn't chatter quite as extensively, she purses her mouth into that shy smile. The one that says, you are doing a fine job of pleasing me - only keep trying and you'll be rewarded with a perfect grin. She toddles around warily, clutching her blankie to her chest, and I'm suddenly terrified of causing her to feel fear.

Her sister wakes up unreservedly cheerful; prepared to take on the day. I watch as the older daughter's excitement infects the younger daughter, and remember how much fun there is to be had in life. We are ready now.

We go.

I am overcome with a feeling of leading a lamb to the slaughter. So irrational, and yet so firmly felt. I do not believe that today will go well. I believe, instead, that it will go so badly that I will have reason enough to withdraw from the program, to try again in another semester.

As we enter the room she will be staying in, she wraps her wary self around and through me, clinging to my well known solidity. Shutting out the unknown space and people around us. I speak to the teachers again, explaining her blankie. Her lambie. Her shyness. They understand; this is their life: walking babies through this transition.

I play with my child. I help her settle in, hoping - praying - for her to enjoy this time, rather than fear it. But not being able to trust in that hope. Because if I cannot approach this experience without fear, how can I expect my child to?

The time comes that she is engaged in some exciting new object. I know this is my moment to go. I do not sneak away, no. She must know that I've not disappeared. She must hear me say that I'll be back soon. In the pit of my belly, the knots are tightening, expecting to be torn apart by her confused expression - her wobbling chin.

I bend down one last time and quickly brush a kiss past her temple, into the place where her warmth and baby-scent are the most strongly concentrated; I will not go without taking this last necessary action. Selfish, yes, expecting to be comforted by breathing her in, and knowing that she will not have the same opportunity. But necessary nonetheless.

I tell her goodbye. I tell her I'll be back very soon. I start to walk away. Everything in me is desperate for a longer goodbye - more snuggling, more holding, more. But I know that will only make it worse.

So I leave.

Expecting the worst. Yet not altogether displeased by that, because I know I will have been granted the excuse I wish for to remove her from the class. My feelings will have been justified by her helplessness. Selfish, again. My fatal flaw.

I peek into the window as I go, to observe her reaction: she is playing. She is looking around, noticing I am no longer with her. She moves onto another toy. She studies a crying playmate. She cradles her blankie, and I wait for the inevitable -

But it never comes.

She is happy. She plays.

Unexpected.

But perfect. I find myself to be lighter. I float away, wondering at her strength, wondering at her adaptability. Two traits that have not been present in myself on this occasion.

She is happy.

I am happy.