Tomorrow, I’ll rise early, embracing the quiet before the day begins. I’ll spend some time reading, writing, and praying, then tiptoe down the stairs to whip up breakfast. Afterward, I’ll sneak back up to plant gentle kisses on my children’s foreheads, pointing to their chalkboard schedules that lay out the day ahead.
Tomorrow, I’ll stroll down the concrete sidewalk, one little hand clasped in mine and the other grasping the fingers of my other child. I’ll keep an eye on the one who lags behind or dashes ahead, depending on his mood, as there are only two hands for my three little ones. Tomorrow, I’ll take my time walking to the school just half a mile away, where I will leave my children for the day.
This year, one of my babies will join the ranks of 125 kindergarteners as he steps out of our home and into the greater world. Even though I’ve navigated this journey twice before, it doesn’t make it any easier. As a fellow parent of kindergarteners, I know I’ll pause at the door, watching my little one disappear into an unpredictable world—a world that doesn’t adhere to my rules or standards, filled with potential danger and heartache.
It’s true that as this day approached, tensions at home have risen. My partner and I have exchanged glances that convey, “I can’t wait for school to start.” But deep down, I don’t truly mean it. The reality is that school means they’re away from my nurturing, my encouragement, and my protection. They will never be far from my love, but still, I feel a heavy weight knowing they will be out of my sight.
Today, my children have climbed onto my lap repeatedly, sensing the significance of this last day at home. Their affectionate snuggles resonate in my heart, echoing a desperate plea: “They can’t go. I can’t let them go.” What if they struggle to make friends? What if their teacher isn’t kind? What if the world outside our home dims their spirits or shatters their hearts?
Tonight, I’ll wander through the familiar hallways of our home, gently touching the backpacks hanging on their hooks, peeking into their rooms to see their sleeping faces—so big yet still so small. I’ll pray fervently for this year to be a good one. I hope they grasp that they are capable of navigating life’s turbulent waters and that they understand how much they matter—to me, their friends, and the world—just as they are.
I can share these affirmations every day, but ultimately, they must discover this truth on their own, away from the safety of home. I know this, yet letting go isn’t simple. I’ve felt the sting of heartbreak and the ache of defeat, and I want to shield my boys from those experiences.
It may sound trivial, but these moments are a part of growing up—pain, disappointment, and heartbreak. Don’t I want them to grow and become their own individuals? Of course, yes! But yesterday they were tiny, just days old, and I was still learning what it meant to be a mother. Yesterday, I cheered them on as they took their first wobbly steps, and now they’re ready to take even bigger strides into the world.
Where has the time gone? Where is my baby? Now they stand tall and self-sufficient, excited to embrace this new chapter, and all I feel is a profound sense of loss. What do I do with this grief?
I will allow myself to break down just outside their rooms, listening to their peaceful breaths, feeling the distance grow between us. It’s incredibly hard to watch them take this step.
This is merely one of countless steps in their journey. I know that their independence will gradually unfold, but it feels abrupt, as though we weren’t adequately prepared for this day. Tomorrow, I will guide them into this next phase of independence, leaving them in a place where they will interact with peers who can choose kindness or cruelty at any moment.
Tomorrow, we’ll pause outside the school doors, where they’ll pose for photos, radiating pride, while I wipe away tears of both joy and sadness. They will walk into their classrooms—two of them have been through this before, while one will glance back, his eyes silently asking, “Are you sure?” and I’ll respond with a reassuring nod, even if uncertainty lingers in my heart.
He’s ready to embrace independence, to explore the world, to grow into his own person. It pains me because he’s still my little one, the same child I held close during sleepless nights. He’s still my little one who bravely tackled the stairs before mastering walking, still the one who fearlessly hung from the monkey bars while I stood below, arms wide, ready to catch him.
I remain at the bottom, arms extended, waiting for the tumbles that life may bring. So yes, I will let him go. I will trust him to greet his teacher, even if her name is still a mystery to him. I will leave him there, my partner squeezing my hand, understanding the weight of this moment. We’ll return home to the three younger children, filling a house that feels emptier without the eldest.
I let him fly because I know he’s ready to test the wings we’ve nurtured. He may stumble, but that will only make him stronger. He’ll find friendships, learn games, and develop a fondness for his teacher. He will be just fine.
Because he is more resilient than I realize, braver than I can fathom, and capable beyond measure. Tonight, I’ll sneak into his room for one final look, one last kiss on those dark lashes that flutter in dreams. Then I’ll retreat to my own space, where night will pull me into its embrace.
Tomorrow marks a significant day. Tomorrow, my child will take his first flight. I will be there, always, watching with tears of pride and a heart full of love.
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In summary, as my child prepares to embark on a new adventure, I grapple with the bittersweet nature of letting go, knowing that this step is essential for growth. Though it’s hard, I trust in their strength and resilience as they take flight into the world.