Rowan starts school today. In a few hours, his sisters and I will walk him into a new room at his old school. He graduated this year to the Hickory Room and a new teacher, leaving the Birch Room and its old teachers behind. Gratefully, there will be some familiar faces, some friends from last year who will move up along with him.

Doubtless, there will be some clinging, some longing to keep me close to his side. Maybe even some tears. His sisters will hug him and guide him to a spot to play, encouraging him with kindness and reassurance that all will be okay. Experience has shown this sadness will not last long after we’ve gone.

He will slowly warm up and jump into the mix, remembering old routines of outside play time, snack and lunch and then rest time. Later, when he spies us coming to collect him in the playground-known-as-the-outside-classroom, he will be reassured by the routine, relieved to know we have not forgotten him. He will either come racing toward me and jump into my arms with the world’s biggest smile on his face—the most frequent way this plays out—or delight in climbing the rock wall once or twice more, running around and reveling in his last minutes of play time. He will tell us he doesn’t want to leave and then my heart will be happy.

We have had a great summer. There were trips home to Pennsylvania to see family, to Maine to go camping, to Lake George to try fishing and tubing and swimming, untethered, for hours a day. There was learning to ride pedal bikes, for both Frances and Rowan, and showing fierce determination in wanting to practice day after day to hone their skills. There were countless hours Rowan spent swinging a plastic bat, earning fewer hits than misses, but loving every minute someone would give him some pitching time. His dedication astounds us sometimes. There was tree climbing in the front yard under Nora’s guidance and tutelage. There were hikes and kayak adventures and imaginary house-playing with babies and stuffies and tea parties. We even reached new heights in whining and complaining and being impatient, the likes of which we may not have witnessed with the girls. Or maybe I’ve just forgotten.

Although Rowan still relies on a lot of us to do things for him, like make paper airplanes, open yogurts, and have our bed available so he can still climb in every night at some point undetected, he is growing fast and becoming more and more independent.

I cling to him fiercely when he passes by and he’ll let me hug him, pick him up, and squeeze him. Sometimes I force it. He’s the only kid I can still pick up with ease and I know the day is soon coming when it’ll be a struggle.

I know the goal of parenting is to nurture our babies toward independence. To help them become kind, self-sufficient citizens who will care for themselves and others. But it sure would be nice to keep them little, wouldn’t it?