By now you're all familiar with my referring to my youngest daughter or "heart of love". Cheesy, I know but it's what she calls me and now I call her that as well.
Today was her first day of first grade. We got up really early so we could get the hair just right. The outfit was picked the night before, as she is her mother in training and one must learn these things, even at age 6. Pancakes for breakfast, grabbed the new pink backpack and out the door. Quick stop in the backyard for the obligatory first day of school pic and off we go. I wanted to get her to school with enough time for her to scope out the new classroom and the teacher.
We entered the doorway of the class. I could see her expression change and the body language was shouting at the top of it's lungs with fear. She looked up at me, tears welling in her eyes and said "I don't know where to go".
I knelt down, holding her in my arms tighter than either of us probably realized, whispering to her that it was ok to be afraid. I told her that change is scary and everyone else felt just the way she was feeling. It took every fiber of my being not to grab her and run home. A million years of genetically inherited maternal instinct had kicked into gear.
In a split second I'd been able to rationalize (in my own mind) that it would be just fine if she were home schooled, safe with me. She would never be picked last for a team in gym class. She would never be the one not invited to the birthday party. It wouldn't matter if her clothes were cool or not; if the little boys sneaked notes to her in class because she was the pretty girl. She'd be protected and there would be no cause for tears. I knew what I had to do.
I walked her to her desk. They were the hardest steps I've ever taken. After making sure she was settled in and seeing that she'd spotted several children from last years class, I kissed her and said goodbye.
I don't know which of us did more growing up today.
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