Dear Reagan,
You start kindergarten this week, at Lancaster Christian Academy.
I’m not sure I’m ready to talk about it.
I’ve tried to savor the moments this summer with you, thinking that maybe if I hung on to every minute, time would slow down. But it didn’t. In fact, I think the days came faster, the nights were shorter, and now here we are, the countdown almost completed.
When you graduated from pre-school, I promised play dates with friends. I didn’t mean them to be empty promises. I envisioned relaxing days and making memories. Instead, time escaped us, and before I blinked, summer was over.
We did manage to go for a few bike rides, before the heat became too overwhelming. Each time, you asked a little earlier if you could go a little farther. Each time, you wanted to feel your freedom just a couple seconds more than the day before.
I know you were just thinking about how fast you could get going to go down the ‘big hill,’ but what you’re really asking is how far I will let you get away from me. Every day you want to be slightly less tethered to me. Every day you want to be a bit more on your own; not quite as dependent on me.
Last week, we had our annual date before your first day of school. It felt much more monumental this year, celebrating the start of kindergarten, and not two- or three-days a week preschool. You chose, all on your own, to wear a tie and belt, and asked Daddy if you could wear his cologne.
We went to the Aquarium restaurant in Opry Mills mall, and then walked through the entire mall, stopping (of course) at the Lego store, the toy store, the candy store, and for a ride on the carousel. As we walked, you naturally slipped your hand in mine. It didn’t occur to you not to, because you don’t yet know quite how to navigate crowds without me. So we walked, hand in hand, talking about everything and nothing. A couple times you said, “Mommy, I’m having the best time.”
You don’t yet know how to navigate life without me either, which I think is where I’m having the difficulty. Because part of the process of you starting school means you are starting to learn how to do life by yourself. Without me. Someone else will have seven hours of your day, five days a week. You are learning how to be independent. You are learning how to leave me.
I’m not sure I’m ready for that.
Actually, I’m sure I’m not.
There’s a song on Sara Evans’ new album, Words, called “Letting You Go,” which says:
Loving you is holding you, lifting you up
Planting the seeds and then watching you grow
Even though it’s hard to do
It’s letting you fall, and giving you wings so you fly on your own
Part of loving you is letting you go
No matter how I want to make you stay
You were also born to fly away
It’s ironic to me: the very nature of me doing my job well means I teach you to leave me. But all I want to do is keep you close.
Every day when you talk about kindergarten, I put on a brave face and smile a big smile and tell you all the things you’re going to love about kindergarten: the big playground right outside your classroom, all the toys we saw when we visited, your new friends, the chance to try new things, and on and on.
And every time, a little piece of my heart breaks. Because I realize I’m trying to encourage you to spread your wings a little more, to learn a little more to live away from me.
When you have your first day of kindergarten, I’m going to put a big, mostly fake smile on my face, and I’m going to give you a big hug and a big kiss and I’m going to wave my biggest wave and send you into a new world.
And then, I’m going to walk away from you and wipe the tears from my eyes. In my heart of hearts, I know I don’t want to keep you forever. I mean, I do, but that would be unfair to you. God didn’t create you, with all your wonderful talents and abilities, to stay with me. He made you to fly away from me. And He is going to equip me to do the job I least want to do: He is going to equip me to teach you to leave me.
Kindergarten is just one of many, many, many milestones we will face together — both of us with our brave faces on, one of us crumbling just a little bit on the inside.
Reagan, I’m so incredibly proud of the person you are. You are such a joy and a delight to be with, and it’s been my pleasure to have a front-row view into your life so far. I have no doubt you will rock kindergarten. You are going to do great.
And hopefully, so will I. Fly high, little man. Fly high.
“You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself any direction you choose.” ~Oh, the Places You’ll Go, by Dr. Seuss
