how to send your child to daycare for the first time.

your problem is that you have always been farsighted. most people don't get that way until they turn forty. but, you were born unable to see clearly the things that are right in front of you. it's a strain to look at your infant son while he nurses. or to see your husband smile as he leans in for a kiss. even though you can see mt. ranier looming on the horizon all the way from texas.

close your left eye--the bad one--so that you can look at your baby. really see him. he lies beside you in the bed, his hair damp and his mouth slack with sleep. for months he's woken up at seven on the dot, but today, he's sleeping late as if he senses a change too. linger in this place, this space. know that as soon as you get up, the spell will be broken.

it hurts to be this close to him.

roll out of bed. make it across the hall before you hear your son stirring. damn, you think, racing back. he's pulled himself up, rocking on his knees, ready to follow the sound of your footsteps. he would crawl right over the edge of the bed if you weren't there to catch him. of course, he would.

put him in the bouncer while you get breakfast together. notice how much taller he's gotten over the summer, the way he's standing flat footed now where once he was on his toes. leave him in the bouncer while you get dressed. leave him in the bouncer while you throw things in the bag he'll take to daycare. diapers--check. wipes--check. alternative outfit 1. alternative outfit 2. milk. jars of food. pacifer. sippy cup. lovie. leave him in the bouncer while you throw things in the bag he'll need when you pick him up from daycare and take him to the office. diapers--check. wipes--check...

impatiently, he waves his arms at you, ready to be rescued again. sweep him up. cover him with kisses. eat him up before giving him his breakfast.

spend ten minutes talking him through the importance of the first-day-of-school clothes. tell him about the unfortunate year that you wore a t-shirt with three laughing cows to start off sixth grade. promise him that someday, when he has a say, you'll try to walk the fine line between letting him make his own choices and protecting him from any mistakes of bovine proportion.

as you load him into the carseat, talk about how much fun he'll have with his classmates, his teacher, his friends. realize that these are his first peers. worry a little. will there be pressure to walk? to talk? to be thinner or fatter or happier?

when you pull up to the school, you notice other mothers getting out more children with more organization. they are better dressed, more well groomed, thinner. worry a lot. run a hand over your messy bun.

his teacher is standing at the door when you get there. she holds her hands out for him and speaks in that high friendly voice that people always use for small children and small dogs. he looks up right away. he smiles and leans forward. "are you ready?" she asks, and you are about to answer that you don't really think you are and then you realize that she is talking to him. "to have some fun?"

stand in the doorway watching him. he doesn't look back at you. instead he fidgets in her arms, wanting to be put down, to go and play. as soon as she puts him on the floor, he scoots to the far side of the room. he puts his mouth on a bright plastic toy, satisfied.

don't cry. this is what you wanted for him all along. remember that if you are going to leave him at daycare with strangers, it is easier for you if he seems to like it.

see you later, baby, you say. and as you walk back to the car, you do just that--see this baby, this boy, in five years. in ten. he is starting kindergarten. he is starting college. and at every stage you imagine him just as he is now. ready to make his move, ready to lengthen the distance between you.

it is a curse and a blessing, this long view.