Flying

We bought a hot tub a couple of months ago. It sits under our deck, facing out across our yard to the hills beyond. It has brought me a new pastime I didn't expect - bird watching. I turn off the jets and sit in the stillness - a stillness alive with the constant chatter of birds. I spotted my first oriole last month flitting about a giant apple tree that graces the canopy at the side of our hill. And just tonight, watching the haze of a late afternoon storm rising slowly from the valley, a humming bird landed on a thin branch and sat - just sat for a full minute before darting straight into the air and disappearing from view before I could blink.

My children are growing up too fast this week - faster then my heart can handle. Alex, my anxious adventurer, the one whose eyes filled with tears whenever I tried to insist we follow the school rule that he walk on his own to class - the one who refused to even consider going to school if I would not walk him down the hall to his smiling teacher -is now walking half a block down a street, crossing the road and heading off without so much as a backward glance in my direction. For the past two months I have pulled up in front of the school - a carefully timed operation as it involves arriving in the few remaining minutes after the buses have gone and the late bell rings. For two months he has moved from tentatively getting out of the car, searching desperately for a friend to walk with him, to hopping out and strolling nonchalantly on his own into the building. This week he asked that we park down the street and walk as we had for the majority of the year. He wanted to get to school a little earlier. So we did. I was happy at the prospect. The short morning walk to the school, Alex's small warm hand in mine, is a ritual I had come to enjoy, and without the anxiety of wondering if and how I could get Alex into the school without me, it seemed like a gift. So I was not prepared when I hopped out of the car, helped him out of his seat and into his backpack, to have him ask me, so innocently, to leave.

"Can't you just get back in the car and go?" he asked without any malice. Just a question.

"Yes," I stammered, knowing the answer would never really be a yes.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

Yes. Yes, I know. And so, off he went. I stood in the middle of the sidewalk with that all too familiar bittersweet of motherhood pulling at my throat, poking at my eyes. I watched as he walked slowly, but confidently, on his own. I watched until he reached the crossing guard, knowing full well how closely he keeps an eye on the kids, knowing Alex would cross safely. I watched until he was on the other side, on the sidewalk that heads directly to the school. And I got in my car and went. Other parents watched me stand and watch him go. They smiled that smile of knowing. I have watched many of them stand in the same spot and watch their children go. I silently thanked the crossing guard for stopping me at the corner so other children could cross - thanked him for letting me hesitate just long enough to catch a glimpse of my son's skinny little legs, sticking out from his shorts, carrying him off to his school. Kindergarten is almost done.

Back at home, he insisted on taking the training wheels off his bike. I agreed with less emotion. I know this is not a move he is ready to take. But he is determined. His balance lasts for a nanosecond now, but it will come. By summer's end, he will be off, this time on two wheels.

Always moving. Always too fast for me.

Cate, for her part, has moved into a bed. Tonight is her first night. She has loved her crib, and we have loved having her in it. Alex was not a crib baby. Only recently has the idea of independent sleep been one he has agreed to make his own. I could write volumes about the emotions attached to sleeping so closely to your child - the joy and the sorrow of that time fading away. I will save it for another day. But Cate has loved her crib. She has loved snuggling into its walls and sleeping the night away. From her I have learned the comforting joy of tucking a little one in and whispering one last, "Good night!" as I carefully close the door. But lately I have started to get the feeling it was time for a bed.

We found the perfect one at a yard sale this weekend - old and wooden, with a trundle - perfect for the sleepovers that will one day fill our weekend evenings. Cate and I spent yesterday cleaning it up and painting it white. Today we bought a new bedspread and put the bed together. And still I had no plan to put her in it. I thought just to set it up. Let us both get the feel. I put sheets on it at 12:45 p.m. At 12:46, Cate tucked herself in for a nap and said, "Don't worry. I not getting out." And she did not. She woke up, pointed to the crib, and said, "I want that out."

It is still there. But Cate is asleep for the night in her new bed. And as much as she needs the floor space in her tiny room, I think that crib might just stay awhile longer. It will stay until my heart again catches up with the girl in the bed.

And so I watched that hummingbird sit tonight, feeling foolish for the tears that flooded my eyes as it darted away, out of my sight.