As a mother of teenage and young adult children, I am well practiced in the art and science of separation – my oldest has lived apart from me for a number of years, and my second-born has been in college many states away for the past few years. Now my 18-year-old, as this last summer of high school fun winds down, will head off to college. Indeed, I am well schooled in separation. Yet I feel peculiarly separate from the emotions to which these separations give rise.

The many small “leavings” of childhood should help prepare a parent for when a child leaves home. From birth, a child’s growing up years are an exercise in separation. And so it has been for me. At times, I have struggled with the mechanics of how this all works: Should I or should I not clean up after them (in ways both metaphorical and literal)? How much should I do for them, and how much should I require they do? How will I know when they are ready to handle life on their own? But ultimately, parenting is done so children can leave. And leave me two of them have – one in “fits and starts,” and one in a “fell swoop.” Time will tell, with my youngest two, whether their leavings will be smooth or thorny.

When they were born I could not imagine a time apart from my babies. This was sometimes a desperate thought – when I was overwhelmed with the responsibilities of raising four young ones. But mostly, with the passing of each stage, I mourned. How in the world is she walking already? Is he really headed off to preschool? Kindergarten? Middle school? Can she possibly be ready to drive? To date? This has been especially true with the transition to college – and out of the house. But in terms of truly experiencing the emotions that roil and swirl and dive around passages, this departure – this “going to college” – is a breaking point for me.

I don’t mean that I have broken down. In no case (so far!), have I wept and sobbed my way through our goodbyes. Indeed, as much as I have relished embarrassing my children through the years (one of our most important parental duties – and one we often perform unintentionally) that would be unacceptably selfish. What I mean by “breaking point” is that I refuse to acknowledge the resulting emotions. I push away my sadness, my disbelief, my melancholy over this moment. I am aware of how poignant these particular leavings are; they are the beginning of a more permanent separation. And this gives rise to more feeling than I care to experience. So instead, I focus on the mechanics: When will she go? What will she bring? How will she get there? Who will take her? What does she need to do? Anything to keep me safely aloof from what churns inside.

Should I be willing to look this moment – and the emotional punch it carries – straight on and embrace it? Experience it, live it, own it? Perhaps. But more than anything, my detachment from the magnitude and messiness of this moment allows me to remember what is central in these departures. And it is not me. Or my emotions. My sadness, while real, and valid, and unavoidable, is not what these stories are about. They are about young lives taking flight. About childhood starting its final journey toward adulthood. About becoming.

So I will keep my emotions at a safe, comfortable distance. I will keep my focus firmly on this newest little baby bird to test her wings. I will cheer her on as she flies away. At least until she is out of earshot. Then, perhaps. Maybe then.