My six-year-old, Camille, started kindergarten this year. My husband, John, took the morning off because he didn’t want to miss her monumental departure. He was feeling the same kind of emotional tug of war I was over this major milestone and I was glad for his tacit support.
On the first morning of school, Camille appeared in our kitchen decked out in her uniform. I noticed how tiny she looked in her navy blue jumper and burgundy blouse. I had bought her brand new Velcro black Stride Rites so I wouldn’t have to tie them in the morning chaos. Even though the shoes were the correct size, everything she was wearing—from the kicks to the threads—seemed too big for her.
Camille has a personality the size of California, but a chipmunk-sized body.
I didn’t cry when my oldest started school eight years ago and I didn’t cry when his three younger siblings walked out of my front door either. Camille’s flight into the forays of how to read books, handwriting, and counting, however, had me a blubbering mess.
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