It's been nearly a month since I've blogged, if you can even even consider the last entry a real blog. Life's been a bit topsy-turvy lately, which has kept me busy and distracted.
My children started school the day after Labor Day. Belly went into First Grade. In a grasp at parental emotional maturity, I allowed her to ride the school bus with her friends on the first day instead of walking her into her classroom. She had already been for orientation, picked her desk and met her teacher, so I figured it was all good. Still, it was hard putting that little person on the bus, sending her off like the big girl she has become. Sometimes I look at her and I don't see a six-year-old, but instead the adolescent, teenager, woman she is going to be someday. It's terrifying, and fascinating all at once.
Distracting me from the first day of First Grade was Sutton's first day of preschool. Even more frightening. I had NOT met his teacher, as we switched schools the night before the first day when a spot came open at our first choice school. I had to just take him in and hope for the best. I got lucky, as his teacher is a sweet, wonderful, sunshiney kind of person. My sweet baby, whom I expected to cry and cling, didn't meet my expectations at all. Not a tear, not a fuss. I couldn't decide if I was proud or devastated. Maybe both.
These perfect little people are growing up on me. I feel so many mixed emotions about it all--the biggest one is that I feel like I SHOULD be upset, but you know, I don't think I am. I like that they are able to have conversations with me. I like that they are more capable, less dependent, giving me little peeks as to what kind of people they someday shall be. I feel like it's wrong for me to celebrate this, to sigh with relief, that it makes me seem lazy and unattached. But I'm not. I've worked hard to teach them and love them and make them who they are. That's something I have to hold onto, something I need to acknowledge more often, as I watch my babies go out and make the world their own.