Get Outta Here

I deliver the girls to their schools each morning, and Susan picks them up each afternoon and shuttles them to dance or takes them home, depending on the day. (On Fridays after piano lessons on campus, I take them home.) When I drop off Suzanna and Abigail at their school, they give me smooches, collect their backpacks, get out, and walk themselves into the school as I drive away. When arriving at Hillary's school, I have usually parked, shut off the vehicle, gone around and opened Hillary's door for her, offered to carry her backpack, walked her in to hang up her backpack, walked her to the playground, and waited there for the playground supervisor to arrive before smooching Hillary and then leaving.

Well, as the year has progressed, that routine with Hillary has evolved into more independence for her. She is fully aware of her upcoming sixth birthday, and she wants to be "a big girl" in many ways. Most recently she has had me leave the vehicle running while I come around to open her door, smooch her at the vehicle, and then watch her walk herself inside the fence (around the playground) before I drive off. Last night she mastered the trick of opening the sometimes-uncooperative passenger-side rear door from the inside all by herself (it requires throwing one's weight at just the right spot on the door while pulling the handle at just the right angle), so this morning she wanted to do everything just as her sisters do: Dad pulls up to the sidewalk; Daughter unbuckles, leans forward, smooches and hugs Dad, and exchanges wishes for a good day; Daughter grabs backpack and gets out of vehicle; Daughter walks self into school.

All went well, and I watched with pride touched with a bit of sadness at the continuing loss of Hillary's five-year-oldness. Still, I remained at the sidewalk to watch her maneuver through the gate and make her way into the school. But she didn't give me that opportunity. For me to do what I do with the other girls, I needed to drive away as she was walking, not wait around to watch her get inside the building. Here's how she reminded me to do that:

"You can just leave now."

And I drove away.

(The Tom Hanks movie Big was made into a musical featuring a beautiful song called "Stop, Time." In it a mother reflecting on her son's growing up wishes that she could stop time, singing, "Nobody warns you of this parent's paradox: You want your kids to change and grow, but when they do, another child you've just begun to know leaves forever.")