Okay, okay, I get it. Mr. Philately has put ice on the bump on my head and I have spent the day picking up the odd bits of “fear about not enough sleep,” “fear of her being taken advantage of,” and “fear that she is unhappy,” and put them back in their places. I even used the opportunity to try to install a new organizational system so the flotsam and jetsam will stay in place (and we all know how much I love to organize). I have closed the door to my closet of anxieties and secured it with a padlock. I have done it so well that I haven’t even though to obsess on whether I’ll remember the combination because I AM a mother. I’ll remember the combination---and I’ll be tempted to unlock the door someday too. But if Kat is lucky, I’ll wait a few weeks.

Sending a child off somewhere is not particularly new to me. I’ve sent my children to camp before and I’ve sent them off to spend a week with various relatives. I’ve lived through having my children with my parents out of town AND their being in a car accident without missing too many heartbeats. So I thought this transition would go smoothly. I’ve prided myself on my ability to let go fairly well. I was kidding myself. Letting go is hard.

And this time is different. Before, I felt as though I was loaning my child somewhere else. This time, she’s establishing herself as an adult and my role is changing. “Mom” has to be redefined. And I promise, Kat, I’m working on it. But I’m new at this one and you’ll have to be patient---with both of us.

But, if I have to miss the mark sometimes, and do my learning in public, I could do worse. I could do worse than the loving support that came with Doug’s wisdom. I could do far worse than the relatively gentle upbraiding I received (especially as gentle is not one of the first words that comes to mind when I think of my older daughter.) I could do worse than having managed to teach my child to push back, gently, respectfully, when a push back is needed. And I could do worse than having her do it so eloquently.

Really, when all is said and done, what more could a mother and writer hope for?

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