Thursday morning I will do what just a few months ago seemed unthinkable.  I will load my boy up onto his school bus and send him off to his very first day of kindergarten.  And then I will promptly fall apart.

It’s the moment I spent all summer both planning and avoiding.  I marked each day we had together in that category of either “firsts” or “lasts”.  If given a chance to snuggle in bed I did-and didn’t bother to move him later in the night.  Never, in my recent memory at least, have I been so focused on an approaching deadline as I have been on this one.

As if to add to my anxiety and obsession we’ve enrolled Owen in language immersion, which means for 80% of his day his teacher will speak to him in Mandarin.  The intellecutally-driven part of my parenting LOVES this idea, but the insecure part of me that is still clinging to her little baby is flipping the eff out.  Just today we had another round of assessments and his teacher gave me instruction in Mandarin.  He hasn’t even started yet and I’m already worthless, was the only panicked thought I could muster while I nodded politely and smiled, searching for any kind of clue as to just what the hell she was talking about.

And I’ll admit, this bus thing is a big deal for me.  I fought it tooth and nail until Kelly and Owen finally wore me down into accepting it as yet another inevitable right of passage- like when he’ll sneak out of the house for the first time or have his first smoke.  I don’t have to like it but I better get used to the idea that sooner or later it is going to happen.  But all I can think about is the fact that he’s 5.  And supposed to get himself from our door to his classroom and back again all on his own.  He’ll have to remember what days he takes the bus home and what days he does not (though I have been assured that the school keeps that information handy as well).  I can barely keep the schedule straight–how on earth can I expect my little guy to?!

Which has meant that I’ve had some difficult conversations about safety.  We know our address, our phone numbers, the safe houses in the neighborhood, where the extra key is kept–all things that when I look at my smiling dude induce panic rather than reassurance.  Not panic that he won’t remember, but panic that he’ll need to.

And that’s what this is all about, right.  Control.  For the past five years I’ve had the luxury of control–or at least the well-lit illusion of one.  And that illusion is every parent’s best friend.  But now I have to let that illusion go.  He is not simply my little guy.  He’s a really bright and creative kid who is dying to stretch his wings in a new and challenging environment.  He’s got a group of buddies ready to cause trouble with him and, just like mommy, he’s been counting down the days till he starts.

So come Thursday, when I’ve taken the last picture, given him the last (embarrassing) kiss, and run through his itinerary that one last time I’ll have done it.  Sent my baby off to the big bad world as armed as he could be.  And he’ll be there, finding his own way, as ready as he could be.   Well, for at least the next seven hours till I meet him at the bus stop and have him walk me home.