“Where’s The Kissing Hand?” whispered my not-so-whispery three-and-a-half-year-old son.
My eyes burst open to meet his gaze, about two inches from my face, which can really be quite startling when you’re in an “I feel so incredibly hung over but I’m actually a mom of young children so I’m just insanely exhausted” kind of sleep.
“What? What time is it?” I replied. I looked over at the clock. Oh, it’s just 5:52 a.m. Awesome.
“I can’t find The Kissing Hand. I want to take out the sticker page at the back of the book so I can hand out stickers at Aunt Stacey’s wedding tomorrow.”
“Wait, what?” I thought to myself. We haven’t read this book in ages. This seems incredibly random. You see, I bought the book two years ago when my son first started school because it’s about a mom and son raccoon who kiss each other’s hands before saying goodbye as a way to manage separation anxiety. Oh, and apparently it has a sticker page.
I slowly rolled out of bed, took him by the hand, and led him back to his room. I removed The Kissing Hand from what was actually kind of an obvious place - his bookshelf - and we headed back to my room. We both promptly fell back in bed, and to sleep.
Fulfilling his promise, my son handed out every damn sticker on that damn page to every damn attendee at my sister’s rehearsal lunch. My husband and I were so proud of him for sharing. So proud, in fact, that we honestly didn’t see it coming.
Two days later, our family waited patiently at the end of our driveway as the bus pulled in to pick up our boy for his first day of camp. There were no tears. No cries of dismay. No kissing hands. Just his enormous grin from ear to ear - a boy armed with determination, confidence and maturity, ready to conquer the world.
“Bye, Mom. Love you.”
What in the hell just happened? I’m so happy he was ready for this moment because I most certainly was not.
With just four short words, it all changed, and my preschooler became a man.
My husband is sitting here chuckling as I solemnly profess to him the gravity of the situation we are facing, because, of course, a 40-pound three-year-old becoming a man is a slight exaggeration. But, this new camp situation does mark a very important milestone that took us by surprise.
Until now, we were in control. We’re the parents, of course. We dressed him. We fed him. We took him to (and stayed with him at) activities. We were working together as a single unit.
Now, for the next eight weeks, the bus will pick him up in the early morning and drop him off in the late afternoon…and I will have no idea what happens during those hours in between. He has new friends whom I don't know. (It’s too early to stress about smoking pot in someone’s basement, right?) He chooses his own lunch (which very well could be composed entirely of American cheese and Oreos - his two all-time faves). He is learning and growing in a way that I’m not familiar with in all of my experience as a mom. And he is functioning as a little man - and we are not there to see it.
Call me a drama mama, but it’s just impossible to believe that this sweet innocent boy that I gave birth to is starting to become an autonomous person. As a mother, my only role for the past three-and-a-half years has been to take care of this child. To choose for him things that I believe he will benefit from. To create an environment focused on love, learning, and limitless opportunity. To be there for him, by him, and with him at all times. And now that role is shifting.
So, I guess what I’m saying is, when that bus pulled away, we were both changed. He established himself as an independent person who can handle (and might I say quite gracefully) new situations with new people in a brand new place like a total champ. And I, feeling immensely proud and very confident in his ability to succeed, can slowly begin to let go.