<

We arrived at the church where the daycare is located a bit late. She held my hand as we walked through the lobby, stopping to watch the other late stragglers. She didn't cling or beg for me to hold her. She walked, so brave and ready.

When we walked into the room she immediately ran to the middle of the room, filled with kids and toys, completely forgetting I was there. I took care of business with one of her teachers and moved to the door. Clara Jane glanced at me as I was leaving, then turned back to what she was doing. I waited outside the room, listening to see if she would cry when she realized I was gone. Nothing.

I darted down the deserted hall, hoping to make it to the restroom without encountering anyone before the tears in my burning red eyes started to fall. I passed an older lady, a church employee, who simply smiled and nodded, used to seeing teary-eyed mothers beating hasty retreats to the ladies room after leaving their babies for the first time.

As I stood in the stall of the bathroom, pressing a wad of toilet paper under my eye to keep my mascara from streaking down my face, the loop in my head changed: "She's a big girl. She's such a big girl. She's a big girl. She's such a big girl. She's big enough to not need me for everything."

There have been so many milestones in the 18 months of Clara Jane's life, and with each one I've passingly thought, "Oh, she's growing up." But today, for the first time, I saw that she really is an independent person, not an appendage of me. She can walk away from me and make it on her own. I didn't feel sad or snubbed. What I felt was overwhelming pride and joy.

Okay, maybe I felt a little sad that, officially, she's no longer a baby. She's all kid.

Once I pulled myself together I headed for the neighborhood coffeehouse. While making chit-chat with the owner I told her that I'll be there every Thursday. She empathized with the first day of daycare blues and made it known I was welcome to spend as much time there as I wanted. For three and a half hours, I worked on the various "real" writing projects I have in the works. I didn't mope or feel sorry for myself. I worked. And it felt great.

When I picked Clara Jane up at 3, she squealed, "Mama! Mama! Mama! Ready skeady go go go!", our vernacular for "let's blow this joint" that I've said to her since our very first solo outings when she was a newborn. Her teacher approached me as I scooped Clara Jane into my arms. "She is such a talker," she said. "Does she have older siblings?" I told her no, that she's just language advanced and speaks on the level of a two and a half year-old. That's just her.

The teacher went on to say that Clara Jane was happy and active all day. She ate a good lunch and snack, had a 90-minute nap, and even did a bit of macaroni art. She got excited about the cows and pigs in one of the stories they read. I didn't have to be there to know what she did. "It's a cow! Moooooooooooooo!!!" and "It's a piggie!" exclaimed while pushing her nose into a pig-snout with her index finger.

And yet, I'm a little sad I didn't see if myself, but happy that Clara Jane now has something that's all hers. Her school. Her teachers. Her friends. Her life.