The first day of preschool for the princess happens abruptly, much like her birth, when she is pulled off a waiting list. I watch her squeeze into the line of children between two boys, a placement that mirrors her position in our family. She glances over at me, with a smile that seems to convey, I've got it now Mom, it's alright for you to go.
Meanwhile, the teacher is briefing me on classroom procedures as I struggle to hold back the water pooling inside my eyelids. I hope she doesn't notice how silly I am. I'm secretly mourning the loss of my princess' babyhood. It disappeared this morning while I was combing her hair. I try to recall her first steps, or some other previous milestone, and my mind goes blank. All I can think of is her quiet, steady presence amid the chaos of boys.
A few months ago I made an observation at my parents' house that made me smile. I thought it was very sweet to see a picture of me at three years old propped up on my dad's dresser. In the image I am small and delicate, dressed in corduroy Bell Bottoms. With motherhood comes a sudden understanding of how parents never stop mourning the past phases of their children's lives.
The above picture is the author of this post at about three years old.
By Loren Christie
Loren writes at Dude, Where Am I?
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