Preschool: Mama

The sidewalk is bright. Her lunchbox is so big, hanging past her knees. I'm holding her hand and we're walking, and I'm looking down, and all I can see is her. Walking with that incredible lightness, perfect heel-toe alignment, small precision, no trace of toddling, just the barest, whispered muscle-memory of wobbles.

I made perfect pigtails, and her pants cost $26.

I selected a shirt with an owl on it, because I thought it could keep her company during the day. "Can I come with you?" the owl asked her (falsetto pretend animal voice, spilling from my lips), as I slid it over her head.

I bought three lunch boxes, with every variation of closure. The evidence of my capable motherhood would rest on my selection of a lunchbox that she could open by herself. We did test runs. Zipper test runs.

She's walking, and she's holding my hand, and the light is bright. I can't believe she's carrying a lunchbox. That I'm holding the hand of a little girl who's mine.

In the car, on the way, I reminded her of my promise. Pink nail polish (my inner feminist enraged, arguing with my inner realist -- I paint my nails, own up to the message, remove the mystery), if she tried hard all day to be brave and have fun. It was quiet in the backseat, and then, "Mama, I'm going to be a big girl. I'm going to have fun and not cry. Yeah, that's a good plan."

I am breathing and not breathing, my eyes wide and bright for her sake. And here is the gate and the mothers and other children dwarfed under backpacks. Where is the sign-in sheet? Who will take her hand? How do I do this? Can she unbutton her own coat?

And then I sign a clipboard, and the lovely woman who wooed us to this place is greeting us, and Nora buries her face in my leg. There will be no moving her. I am hugging her, madly breathing bravery into her ear, murmuring little promises and how can I possibly let her know how much I love her, how can I possibly spill into her heart every ounce of "You Are Nora and You Are Mine and We Chose This Place for You and Everything is OK"? And then the lovely woman is lifting her up and Nora is looking back at me, over this woman's shoulder, and she is wailing. She reaches for me as she's carried away, past the pretty little wooden gate. "Take a deep breath ..." the woman says, as they turn out of sight.

My head is down and the sidewalk is bright and I don't see much of anything, quick steps back to a car where I cry and once again, I take a deep breath, and I am letting go.