I don't mean that I won't cry. As Skip left for work this morning -- he sadly has to travel out of town and can't be a part of this morning's ceremonies -- he asked me if there will be time in my morning for a good cry, or some other kind of emotional reckoning with the events unfolding. And there will. (And in that is some joy: back to a routine that involves time to myself! Yes!) But I am surprised by how ready, in the larger picture, I feel to step forward onto this new page, and new chapter of our lives together as parents and children.
I kiss goodbye, with complicated affection and a willing heart, my doubts and concerns about whether I've prepared Kay enough for this entry into the world. It may sound overwrought, but the truth is that as of today, Kay will belong to her school, her teacher, and her friends -- and, thus, the larger world -- in a way she could not and did not up until now. She has been ours. And now she's yours, too. And most importantly, she's hers.
Or, at least, she's at the beginning of becoming so. I can hardly wait to watch her unfold her wings and start to take flight. Because -- oh, I have no doubt, and through no credit to myself -- that girl will fly. And her little sister will catch that updraft, maybe even before it builds, to rise up with her. They are miracles, my daughters, and I am a lucky, grateful witness. My job remains, as it always has, to give flight instructions, sometimes sought and sometimes ignored, sometimes from the air, sometimes from the ground, but at this point forward -- increasingly --with my hands off the wheels of their own crafts.
God, guide my words and my daughters on their way.