Hardest to Leave

I've taken Jada to our new day care place about a half-dozen times by
now, and each time except the first day she's bawled, stomped, and
screamed when I've dropped her off. And each time, per the books,
I've kissed her on the forehead, told her I love her and that Mama
will pick her up in the afternoon, and headed out the door without
looking back. It's easier to do than you might think, especially when
I hear after the fact from Amy and from the day care worker that she
very quickly settles down and starts playing quietly.

But earlier this week it was hard. Instead of full-blown theatrics,
she scrunched her face up, on the verge of tears. She threw herself
into my arms and squeezed tight. And when I hugged her back, kissed
her, told her what I always tell her, and then plopped her back on the
floor, she sniffled a little but didn't cry. When I walked out the
door, I still didn't look back -- but I wanted to. For this was by
far the time that it was hardest to leave her.