Letting Go is Hard

"He'll be fine," my husband assured me when I sobbed into his shoulder Sunday night. "Lots of kids ride the bus, kids who are even younger than him." The hard lump in my throat wouldn't let the words running through my mind escape. I'm not worried about him. He's going to be great. I'm sad. Letting go is hard.

I've taken him to school and picked him up almost every single day since he started preschool when he was 3. Now he's 6 and in 1st grade. Time is flying by, and he's growing up so fast. In just the past few months he has learned to start his own shower, brush his teeth and floss independently, pack his snack and choose his breakfast, pour water into his cup, and sort, fold, hang, and put away his clean laundry. This might not seem like much to some, but letting go of these tasks and giving them to him has taken intentional effort on my part. I love doing these things for him. I've dreamed of being a mom my whole life, but my dream didn't include the part about letting go, which may be the most important part of his development in this next stage of his childhood. I'm good at supporting and holding on tight and being there for him. Letting go is hard, but I know this is the right thing for him. It's important to empower him and for him to feel capable.

So this morning, bundled up in winter coats and hats, we walked to the corner hand in hand. We only had to breathe in the chilly January air for a few minutes before the bus turned onto our street and pulled to a stop. He was excited, and I was glad for that. "Give me a hug, Momma. It's time for me to go." He climbed up the steps and made his way toward the back of the bus. I could see the ball on the top of his hat bobbing down the aisle above the seats. I waved as the bus pulled away and my boy rode away without me. I knew he would be fine. And so would I. Letting go will always be hard for me, and I'll do it anyway, for him.