Dear Gracen,
When I drove off Friday, I saw bubbles floating out of the fence behind Our Playhouse. I knew that you were below them, trying to catch them and possibly eat them. You shed no tears like you did on Wednesday, for which I was grateful. I, on the other hand, did manage a drop or two when I got to the car.
This was a vast improvement over Wednesday's "incident." I had been trying to ease you into the environment by staying and playing for a while. We had the discussion on the car ride of "Mama's leaving to go vacuum the house (you detest vacuuming) while you stay and play with toys and make sand castles and pick apples from the tree." Every couple of minutes, however, you would look up at me with those gorgeous brown eyes, your lips would quiver and you would whisper "No, Mama stay." I could feel the lump forming in my throat. I looked at your teacher and asked, "Is it like pulling off a band aid?" She nodded and mouthed, "Just go ahead." You could sense what was happening and you strapped yourself to me while I was sitting on the miniature chair at the tiny table and began screaming. It was a scream I had never heard from you, full of desperation and utter fear. At this point, the director saw that things were going to get ugly so she came and literally peeled you off of me, one appendage at a time. I kissed your head, told you I loved you, began crying myself and ran like hell. I bulldozed my way through groups of parents chatting, whose kids were gleefully playing alone. All I could get out in the form of an apology was, "That's my baby crying." They smiled and let me pass as I managed to bang Avery's car seat on every available wall and the fence outside. I got in the car and had a full breakdown. It was one of those revival salvation cries that comes from deep in the belly and soul, and you have no real control over your arms or voice. After five minutes or so, I got it together, talked myself out of going and peeping in the window, and drove off. I called your Daddy, trying to feign I had more emotional control than I did. I'm not sure I was very convincing. I then called Amy, who had left a few minutes ahead of me, not in tears. She didn't answer and I didn't bother calling anyone else because I was going into panic mode again as I drove down the highway. I made it to Carrboro, not sure of where to go. Avery and I ended up in the parking lot of the Red Hen for a blowout diaper change, a nursing session, and a phone call from Amy. She managed to get some semblance of control out of me and assured me that all of this was in your best developmental interest and that I'm still a good mother. It took a while. (Thank you, Amy) Aves and I headed over to Weaver Street Market to kill some time while I waited to hear from school. Your Daddy called to let me know school had called the house, but he missed it (he was still working from home due to his unexpected and slightly hilarious Pox situation). I called them back and talked with Sadie, the director. She said she almost cried for me as I was leaving--not a pretty picture, I'm guessing. Apparently, you cried for about three minutes, and then you were perfectly fine and playing. You were having a grand ole time, while I nearly wrecked your sister and myself due to blinding tears.
When I came back to get you after lunch, you didn't see me at first. You were running around laughing and playing. When you finally saw me, you stopped in your tracks, opened your arms as wide as you could and yelled, "Oh, Mama! I miss you!" And then you looked at your teacher grinning and said, "Mama came back." I stopped myself from crying again.
On Friday, I left you in the sandbox, picking up shiny things which you were carefully putting into an empty bubble bottle. When I came to pick you up, you were putting apples in a basket. I have absolutely no idea what happened in between, which is very odd. Your Daddy and I have known all the minutia of your life for over two years, and now there's a blank space. And in that space is this whole new independent you that we only hear about. And often, we have no clue what you're saying. It's going to take some adjusting and acceptance from me. You're still my little baby, and I'm having a hard time letting you grow up.
I love you, and I miss you too.
Always, always.
Mama
Aren't they sweet... 
Hiking at Linville Falls (The Riggles bunch with Brooke and Lily).
Watching the Olympics.
Taking an ice bath. Adam's a little paranoid about scalding babies. He has no troubles with turning them blue.
