Letting go

The strange thing about your own children is that however much they exhaust and frustrate you, letting go of them is one of the hardest things you will ever have to do. The wrench is almost physical. A cutting of the ties, a loosening of the knot, a lowering of the safety net you have created for them.
Yesterday our 15 year old daughter, Mia, started her work experience for You Magazine in London. The offices are in Northcliffe House, just off Kensington High Street, the building  huge and never ending with escalators that  reach to the sky.

On the train and tube, Mia had towered over me in her heels and "smart/casual," blue dress but as I watched her disappearing through the spinning glass doors , she suddenly looked so small and vulnerable. A miniscule blue dot against the imposing brown brick and reflective panelled glass.  
It was hard not to chase after her - just to check she was alright.   
But that would never do.  
It was uncool enough that I had come.
So I stood and watched her disappearing along the shining hallway, taking her first step into adulthood. 
Watched the emptiness where she had been standing.
Watched the doors spinning constantly, rotating people in and out.
Watched the world that, at 15, Mia will now know more about than me.
And I couldn't help wondering when it is that we stop being the centre of our children's worlds and start becoming mere observers, standing outside, watching their lives unfold through the reflective glass.

Perhaps it starts with the first day of nursery or the first day of school. 

Or the  first time they go to a party without you or sleep at a friend's house. But I think that maybe it starts the day you are walking down the road together and they see a friend waiting for them and shaking off your hand, they say:
"you're not going to walk all the way to the end of the road with me, are you?"

I spent the rest of  yesterday pacing the grey London pavements, breathing in the fume-filled air, feeling old and slightly unnecessary. 
And at the end of the day I waited inconspicuously at the tube station.

Until I saw her, smiling and waving through the crowds in her blue dress and high heels.
And she was fine.
And I was fine. 
And I waved back, smiling too.  
The slightly sad smile of someone who is learning to let go.

To A Daughter Leaving Home

When I taught you
at eight to ride
a bicycle, loping along
beside you
as you wobbled away
on two round wheels,
my own mouth rounding
in surprise when you pulled
ahead down the curved
path of the park,
I kept waiting
for the thud
of your crash as I
sprinted to catch up,
while you grew
smaller, more breakable
with distance,
pumping, pumping
for your life, screaming
with laughter,
the hair flapping
behind you like a
handkerchief waving
goodbye. 

Linda Pastan