Eloise barely said goodbye to me today. I wrapped my arms around her gently and kissed the top of her head—this gesture now done without bending over-as I told her to have a great time. Her arms remained still, holding her backpack with one hand and waving a friend over with her other. She was facing half away from me, her eyes on her friend, her motion forward and already slipping away from my attempt at a full embrace.
“I will, Mom.” She said as she handed her bus pass to the camp counselor.
“I love you, Eloise.” I said one more time as I reached out to tuck her hair behind her ear.
She ducked away slightly as she gave me a half-smile. “I know. See you later, Mom.” She said as she bounded up the bus steps in one quick motion.
I watched her walk down the bus aisle and find a seat. She took a book and a stuffed animal out of her bag and then lifted her bag into the overhead rack before she took her seat. All by herself. I stood in the parking lot separated from my daughter by much more than just a bus window and watched her until the bus pulled away. Twice she looked towards me and waved quickly and small as more girls boarded the bus. But when the bus was full, the doors were shut, and the bus lurched forward, she never looked up to meet my eyes and say a final goodbye.
When Eloise was three, I used to peel her off my leg at preschool drop-off. She would sob, hide behind me, and beg me to stay. The teachers assured me that she was happy once I was gone, that she had good friends, and loved school—but separating was hard—for two very long years. I assumed that she would still be crying at junior high drop-off, I would have to attend prom with her and her date, and going away to college was probably out of the question.
But by kindergarten, Eloise was running out of my car and up the steps to school all by herself. By the end of that year, she barely gave a wave behind her. She only took the bus the next year, and questioned why I needed to even hang-out at the bus stop with her as she waited each morning.
And now, at 10, she's heading off to camp for a week and it doesn't bother me that she doesn't reciprocate my hugs, or return every “I love you” that I say her way, or even wave goodbye as I lose sight of her brown flipped up hair reflected in the bus window.
Because she is still there—that three year old girl, hanging onto my leg at the preschool door. But now she just has the knowledge, confidence and security that I am also still there where and when she needs me. Whether it's a leg to hide behind or me just sitting on a couch 200 miles away sending her good thoughts over the miles of space that separates us. She knows I'm here.
I just hope she smiles when she finds the little notes in her luggage reminding her to wear clean underwear, write to her sisters, and brush her teeth at least twice per day. I just hope she knows I love her more than any hug, kiss or wave through a window will ever show.
About the Author
