It filled me with sadness.

Hours after she’d reluctantly gotten on the school bus, I saw how she’d laid her pajamas out neatly on her bed. It was only a few nights ago that she’d asked me to ‘fix’ the mangled inside-out ball of them before she could put them on for sleep – a task she was perfectly capable of doing, but at which somehow I was better.

The magic of mom. We somehow only notice it when it isn’t employed.

But this isn’t about the unrecognized or underappreciated.

This is about the wistful movement toward independence.

Hinted at in outfits plucked from the drawers by oneself, pajamas outlining the little person who is no longer there.

She’s still there. She didn’t want to go to school. She told me by moving her little body in an angry run down the driveway this morning.

But it was paired with more grown-up concerns like math and writing and reading – but not about what we want; by two-player games when there’s a third; by recesses that are too short and far between.

All of my kids struggled during this year of school. The threshold between little and bigger; fun and hard work; learning and toil.

It’s an important step that she’s being proactive and more independent. It’s good for her and easier for me. But its gain is paired with the loss, or erosion at least, of whimsy and nonsense, carefree days and easy play.

Laying out one’s outfit for the next day is just one more lock of a cog on the wheel. I want her to run freely down the road and into life.