This morning, Rada and I walked to her school in the gentle, warm rain. Chatting and twirling our umbrellas, we made our way up the hill, over the train bridge, and then down the other side where her school came into view at the end of Webster Ave. She turned to me and said, “Mom, you don’t have to kiss me goodbye.”
Blinking, I looked at her, uncomprehending. What was she talking about? I always kissed her goodbye in the morning. She said, “No, its OK, Mom. Please don’t kiss me. You don’t have to. I’ll say goodbye to you here.”
Shaken, I helped fasten her backpack on her shoulders and waved goodbye as she walked the rest of the way alone.
Of course, I don’t have to kiss her goodbye. Of course she doesn’t it need it anymore. But I do.
I was counting on a few more years before she pulled away. What do you think? Should I insist on planting a goodbye kiss on that deliciously chubby cheek of hers … or should I let her go?
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