The alarm bell rings loud and my daughter covers her ears. She doesn't like it. It signals change and change is sometimes scary. She dresses. She eats. She brushes her hair and her teeth. I urge her along as we must get moving to another destination. She stalls. She whines. It's something she doesn't want to do.

"But why, mommy? Do I have to go? " she cries and her face is glistened with tears running down her cheeks. Her mouth pouts and she sniffs loudly.

"Yes, honey, you must. Now, don't worry. This is a good thing and you'll be fine at the end of your day," I say, trying my best to soothe her woes. I wrap arms around her tight and bend down to her level, " I love you sweetie. Now, you be a big girl now. C'mon. You can do it and time will ease your pain."

So reluctantly she goes, into my Ford pinto, and we drive the equivolent of ten blocks. We arrive to a large brick building and she enters inside, along with all the other children her age, entering kindergarten for the first time. She tugs on her backpack to adjust it before going in herself. She turns to wave and I feel a tug at my heart.

I think, yes, this is a good thing. She will learn from this experience. She will grow up a little inside and treasure the memories that this will bring. One day, she will see this is meant to be.

On a different day, we do the same:

The bell rings loud in the hallway and my daughter covers her ears. She doesn't like it. It signals change and change is sometimes scary. I urge her along as we must get moving to another destination. She stalls. She whines. It's something she doesn't want to do.

"But why, mommy? Do I have to go? " she cries and her face is glistened with tears running down her cheeks. Her mouth pouts and she sniffs loudly. Her hands clasp tightly to all her rewards received that long year, for improvement in writing, for good conduct, for perfect attendance.

"Yes, honey, you must. Now, don't worry. This is a good thing and you'll be fine at the end of your day," I say, trying my best to sooth her woes. 

So reluctantly she follows me, out of the auditorium and onto the school lawn. My pinto sits along the curbside. The children rush out of the building. Summer waits, but my daughter pauses on the sidewalk and looks back. She adjusts her backpack and waves at a young, pretty lady standing close by, near the steps. Then all at once, my daughter makes a mad dash towards her and wraps arms tightly about her waist.

"Oh, Miss Tina, I'm going to miss you!" my daughter cries. The teacher smiles and places her hand over her heart. She bends down to her level.

"Yes, I know. I'll miss you too. But summer goes by fast and soon fall will come around again. You'll be entering the first grade and my class will be just down the hall. We'll see each other again. You can do this and time will ease your pain. Trust me."

"I do trust you, Miss Tina, and I'll always love you," My daughter says,  embraces her once more, and then dashes back to me. I see the teacher wipe her eyes as my daughter waves madly to her as we pull away from the curb. My daughter sits back into her seat and studies her papers, smiling with pride.

And then in silence, I drive us back the equivolent of ten city blocks to our home. Along the way, I think, yes, this is a good thing. She will learn from this experience. She will grow up a little inside and treasure the memories. One day, she will see this was all meant to be.

. August 2008 by Chriss Hill