I said goodbye to the girls this morning and walked out of their school, feeling heavy with a peculiar kind of grief. I said goodbye to the girls and I did not say hello to Madeleine's first grade teachers. We didn't even make a right-hand turn down the hall where her classes were held. Didn't even tour past the room where I'd had several meetings with her teachers, worriedly scanning the notes I'd scrawled before driving to the school, nervously tracing over knuckles with fingertips, leaning back and trying to find the right combination of words that would tell them: I'm worried. Help Madeleine. What can I do? What is going to happen to her?
I said goodbye to Violet and I said goodbye to Madeleine and as I left the school I said goodbye to an old reality, some random fact about my daughter that somehow became a part of who I was. Mad was a first grader, now she's a kindergartner. Goodbye, first grade. Goodbye some odd idea of supposed to be.
It's good, great, wonderful that we were able to make this move for her. I feel pretty certain that this was the best thing we could do for her, things being what they are, but it doesn't make it hurt any less, shelving some idea of progress, coming to terms with the idea that Madeleine's peer group is a bit ahead of her. That we'll need to go back to move forward.
Because if motherhood has taught me anything, it's that progress isn't linear. Growth doesn't happen in an unceasing forward line. Growth is stops and starts, retracing steps and reconfiguring plans. Growth is a lurching heart on the way out of your kids' school building, your daughter's big eyes and thoughtful frown as she stares out of the car window, taking measure of what's to come, her palm in your palm and a gentle squeeze goodbye.
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