First Day

Grace, this time around was easier. You knew where you were going and you cinched up your belt, slung your backpack on, and took it like a first grader. Everything came into view very clearly. There was hardly a jitter as we walked into school together, as a family.
You were willing to help us feel calm and happy, and that trait alone made you seem like you were 22.
Halfway to the pavilion you didn't want us to touch you. Walk next to you, talk, yes. But no touching. And please, no more pictures.
You let me kiss you. On the lips. I know you did it just for me, too, because of that little hesitation.
You absolutely love these shoes. You think you can fly in them. You think they make you faster. And they do.
You filtered into your new classroom. You found your seat and as you did, I watched you take off your backpack, watched your shoulder blades work hard while you unpacked your supplies. Your eyes darted back and forth, taking stock of your cubby, the blackboard, the other kids. I was nervous, but you were not. I imagine that as I write this you are eating your grapes, the ones I washed and put in a ziplock bag last night at midnight while Dad and I gushed and gushed over you. It's the way we often spend our spare time.
Ruby,
You know the van with all the stickers? The van we drive everywhere? It was inside this van today that I had my final feeling about you going to preschool. I was driving the van down Lakeland Hills Boulevard, right before you pass the hospital. And my chest tightened.
It was really sudden. Like a shockwave. You were saying something about listening to "Mrs. Wilson" if she gives you instructions. And there it was, a minor anxiety attack right there in the driver's seat. How could I really let go of you? Even for a few hours each morning? I breathed through it, blinked my stinging eyes and my lungs eased up and I looked back at you, the early morning light brightening your green eyes and your chattering mouth full of expressions and expectations.
I looked over at Dad and said that there will never be anyone else like our Ruby. No one.
You then reached over and poked Lillie in the arm. The baby that was only a newborn at this time last year.
Ruby, you floor us. And I know you'll be alright. But like any other parent, I feel like I walked you to the end of the dock, dropped you into the sea, got in my car and drove back home with an insufficient, "she oughtta be alright".
Remember that we will always be waiting for you to come home so we can hear each and every set of your profound thoughts.