Three weeks into Kindergarten and William has been coming home with all sorts of new skills. The other day, for instance, he said, “Mama, do you want to hear me burp the alphabet?”

We’re so proud.

In truth, he has already learned many things in Kindergarten, including how to maneuver the morning drop-off line at school. Each day we pull up to the curb, he opens his door, grabs his backpack, and hops out of the car.

And, for the next minute or so, we wave good-bye. Ours is a slow-motion wave, a long-drawn-out, slightly embarrassing gesture. We hold out our hands and gaze at each other through the windshield. He walks toward the gate of the school, his oversized backpack practically dragging him to the ground, his neck craning, not sure if and when to look away. Meanwhile, I inch the car forward, stretched long across the console and passenger seat, waving and waving until he disappears from view.

I have always tried not to be one of those overly doting mothers. Soon after my husband and I brought William home from the hospital and he started screaming through the night, we came up with two short-term goals for our child:

(1) He would be able to be held by anyone, and
(2) He would be able to sleep anywhere.

And so began our foray into the world of babysitters and nannies, grandparents and teenage relatives—whatever skilled assistance we could beg, borrow, or steal. We took seriously that mantra that it takes a village to raise a child.

And through the years of cobbling together workable babysitting arrangements, William and I got good at two things—saying goodbye and coming back together. Five and a half years later, William is a friendly, outgoing boy who seems as if he could be held by anyone. Those early days of letting go, of not trying to be with him every second of every day, helped us prepare for bigger breaks, like the kindergarten drop-off line.

Still, it’s strange to watch him walk through the school gate, the big boy who was once a baby in my arms. But perhaps stranger still is picking him up at the end of the day. I watch him pile his gangly legs into the back seat, buckle his own seat belt, and for the tenth time in a week, burp the alphabet.