Mary was much more sentimental. She was aware her day was a landmark in her progression into adulthood. She was excited but sad to leave me behind.
This little Hanna of mine had been to the school countless times before, picking Mary up or dropping her off, going to parent-teacher conferences and back-to-school nights. I got her ready and she acted like any other time I dress her, wiggly and a bit squirmy. There was no sign in her persona about being scared to be alone, without her mommy, daddy, brother or sister nearby.
She rode her bike like she was out to conquer the world, until she got hot and her little legs couldn't push the peddles in circles anymore. I pushed her bike and the stroller close to the end of our mile. The pavement had gotten the best of her, and she rightfully took her place by my side and walked the remainder of the way.
We waited in line to enter her class, perhaps lingering longer than we needed too. Inside that gate, the entrance to, at least, the next twelve years of my babies life, took a bit of bravery and dismissal to enter. We found her name tag and slowly, the place her little backpack will hang everyday for the next nine months. Her seat was a bit harder to find, scanning the tables over and over, unused to someone else writing my childs name besides her or myself; we found it.
She sat down and began doing what all the other children were doing. Doodling on the blank white paper in front of them. I took one last picture and walked away.
I found some neighbors in the hall and distracted myself for a minute, tricking my heart into not making a big deal of it. But then I saw her, small, away from me, without the four she knows and loves. So innocent, sweet, clumsy and brilliant, and defiant.
I know she will be alright. I know she will do great. But I just can't help but want her back. Back in her undies on the couch with her little wiggle and exaggerated laughs. I love her. I love her.
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