Letting Go

My son says he doesn't want me to come to his swim meet this Saturday. "Absolutely not." On the one hand, this means not spending 7 hours (at the very least) on a bleacher in the Singapore sun, on the other hand, this is my fourteen year old who doesn't need me to watch him any longer. That can't be right. Is this the same kid who used to ask me to watch him play in the playground? I remember that clearly because I really wanted to read my book. "I'm going to play but you have to watch me, ok?" Or the little boy who used to sit on my lap while we watched The Jungle Book every single day after preschool? Surely not the same child who used to ask to hold my hair scrunchie, when we were visiting my parents and I had to momentarily leave the room, "So I know you will come back." I did have an unhealthy attachment to my scrunchie, the boy was observant like that.
Today parents were invited to attend an art class at my daughter's school. It's her last period, so naturally I assume she will ditch the school bus afterwards and just come home with me. But no, I am wrong. "I'm going to take the school bus home, is that ok?" Of course, it is ok. It's better than ok because this is the single thing I was most worried about when she started this new school: the 40 minute school bus ride. In fact, this is really great news. And it's also wonderful that my son is confident and independent enough to go to swim meets on his own now. But there's something else I can't put my finger on. Somewhere, deep down it also hurts a little. I guess that's what being a parent is about: being happy, even when it hurts a little.