I knew it was going to be hard.
I've been yapping about it for months--"I'm not ready." "It's too soon." "She's so little."
And yet, it still ended up somehow being more difficult than I anticipated.
I try to cut myself some slack because when you watch your super excited five year old walk down the hall with her giant backpack and her head bobbing back and forth involuntarily, a residual side effect of two and a half brain surgeries, you get to have a moment (or several).
When 5 years earlier, you didn't know if this child was going to make it through the night much less what might lay ahead of you for the unforeseeable future, you get to practically run from her classroom after dropping her off so she doesn't see you cry.
You also get to be a weird mix of sad and impressed when she doesn't want you to walk her to class after the first day and then doesn't even need her brother to take her to class after the second day: "Nah, I got it."
She does "got it".
I'm learning that more and more.