Tomorrow, I will wake at dawn, engaging in some quiet time for reading, writing, and reflection, before I quietly descend the stairs to prepare breakfast. Afterward, I will sneak back upstairs to kiss my children as they sleep, directing their attention to the chalkboard schedules that outline their day.
Tomorrow, I will stroll down a concrete pathway, grasping the fingers of two of my children, while the third either lags behind or rushes ahead, depending on his mood. With only two hands available for three kids, I will take my time as we make our way to the school just half a mile from our home, where I will leave them for the day.
This year, one of my little ones will join 125 other kindergarteners as he steps out of our home and into the world. Having done this twice before, one might think it would be easier, but I know that’s not the case.
I will find myself among the other kindergarten parents, pausing at the door to watch my child step into a world beyond my control—a world that operates outside my rules and could be filled with both wonder and peril. The anticipation of school has certainly heightened tensions at home recently, with my partner and I exchanging glances that suggest a longing for the routine to begin. Yet deep down, I don’t mean it. The start of school signifies their absence from my encouragement, my presence, and my protection—although they will never be absent from my love.
Today, as my children climb onto my lap throughout the day, it feels as if they instinctively understand the significance of this final day at home. Their cuddles echo through my heart, pleading, “They can’t go. I can’t let them go.”
What if they struggle to make friends? What if they don’t connect with their teacher? What if the world outside our home damages their spirit or confidence?
Later tonight, I will wander through the familiar halls of our home, grazing my fingers over the backpacks hanging on their hooks. I’ll slip into their rooms to gaze at their sleeping faces—so big yet so small—and I will cry and pray that this year brings them joy and success. I wish for them to understand their worth, to believe they can navigate life’s storms, and to know how important they are to me, to their friends, and to the world, just as they are.
I can express these sentiments daily, but ultimately, they must discover this truth away from home, in the world. I recognize this, yet letting go is far from simple. I’ve tasted heartbreak, and I don’t want that for my children. I’ve witnessed defeat, and I wish to shield them from it. I know cruelty exists, and I want to protect them from experiencing it.
It may seem trivial; it’s merely a part of growing up—the pain, the disappointment, the heartaches. Don’t I want them to mature? Don’t I want them to be independent? Yes, of course. But the truth is, just yesterday he was a newborn, and I was learning how to be a mother. Yesterday, he needed me to guide him through every small task, from bathing to bedtime.
Where has the time gone? Where is my baby? Now, they are tall, lanky, and eager for this new chapter, while I am left grieving. How does one cope with this grief?
I will find myself breaking down just outside their rooms, listening to their soft breaths as they sleep, feeling the weight of their departure. This moment is just one of many steps in their journey, yet it feels abrupt—like we weren’t quite ready for this transition.
Tomorrow, I will guide them toward independence, leaving them in an environment where they will interact with peers who can choose kindness or cruelty at any moment. They will face choices, like whether to consume the cookies in their lunch first.
Just outside the school doors, my children will pose for countless photos as their father captures this momentous occasion. They will beam with pride, and I will cry with pride, because they will always be my babies.
As we approach their classrooms, two of my kids are familiar with this process, while the third will turn at the door, silently asking, “Are you sure?” I will have to answer with my eyes what my words cannot convey: “Yes, sweetheart. I’m sure.” Even though I have my doubts.
He is ready to explore his independence, ready to engage with the world, ready to grow and learn outside my protective embrace. It aches, especially since he is still the little boy I once cradled through sleepless nights, the child who mastered the stairs before he could walk, the one who hung upside down on the monkey bars while I anxiously waited below.
I still stand at the bottom, arms outstretched, hoping he doesn’t fall. But I must let him go. I will allow him to enter that classroom, to meet his teacher—even if he may not remember her name just yet. I will leave him there, and his father will squeeze my hand, understanding the weight of this moment. We will return home with our three younger children, who fill the house, yet somehow, it feels empty without him.
I release him because I believe he is ready to fly on the wings we’ve helped him build. He will stumble, yes, but with each fall, he will learn to soar higher. He will forge friendships, discover new games, and come to love his teacher. He will be alright. He is stronger than I realize, braver than I can fathom, and more than capable.
Tonight, I will tiptoe into his room for one last look, a final touch, a last kiss on those dark lashes that only feel my affection in his dreams. Then I will return to my room, to my bed, as night envelops me.
Tomorrow is a significant day. Tomorrow, my child will take his first flight. I will always be there, watching with tears of pride and a heart that aches with love.
In conclusion, the journey of motherhood is filled with moments of joy and heartache. As children step into their independence, parents must grapple with the bittersweet reality of letting go. For more insights on parenting and home insemination, you may want to check out this informative post and explore the expert advice at Make A Mom. Additionally, for comprehensive information on pregnancy and insemination, visit Healthline.
Keyphrase: letting go of my child
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