From the moment our children come to us, it seems they begin pulling away. Life is a series of steps away from their parents - more independence, new friends, more responsibilities. And we open our eyes one day to see our children leaving us for good. Some might say kindergarten is the first good-bye.

My daughter Lilly will be starting Kindergarten in a few weeks. I will buy her some new clothes, a new lunchbox, some school supplies. I have gone through this before - my oldest child will be going into third grade this year. Yet it still feels fresh, painful. It brings so many memories of my childhood. The way my sister and I looked forward every year to school, and laid out our outfits on the floor the night before. The way we went to Payless every August with my Dad to buy pee-chees and new pencils. The way we went to the opening day assembly to meet up with all of our friends and catch up on the summer behind us. Those are the good memories.

But I also remember times of loneliness, of negotiating the slippery terrain of junior high, when kids started using drugs, fighting outside the school, and developing edges that scared me. I remember times when lifelong friends would drift away from me over the summer, and we would eventually not even greet each other in the hallways.

I remember when my parents suddenly weren't cool. Suddenly they were strangers, to be met over dinner at night or to ask for money. They were no longer my guardians against a scary world, and they certainly weren't the place I went to when I was scared, or afraid.

A friend of mine recently told me about her 14-year olds "difficult years." One day her daughter simply stopped talking to her. For three years, she glared at her Mom, and rolled her eyes when asked to do anything. My friend learned the new rules, and stopped hugging her daughter, or even greeting her much in a crowd. But oh, how she missed her.

Then one day, at a drama production, Jackie's daughter grabbed a camera and threw it to a friend. "Quick," she said. "Take a picture of me and my mom!" As Jackie stood and foolishly fought tears, her daughter threw her arm around her and posed for the camera. Jackie said it was the first sign of affection in three years.

Of course her daughter turned out just fine, graduated near the top of her class, and is leaving for college next week.

But the letting go - ah, that part sounds hard.

A friend of mine is a kindergarten teacher. I talked with her today, and asked her about those little people who come to her each year. She said the first day of school, there are some simple things you can do. You can act confident. You can stay a short time to say good-bye, then leave. Don't linger, or feel sad. You can say good-bye clearly but firmly. Don't sneak out. You can tell you child about the clock, and about the time when they will come home to you.

As I gaze upon my children, who are running at breakneck speed towards growing up, I know how lucky I am. I've seen it all with my children - and they never have to ask "when you coming home, Mom?" I am here with them. They've become my buddies, my pals. We're a team. But does that make the good-byes easier... or harder?

Oh, children. I will miss you so. I will miss you when you go off to college. . I will miss you when you walk down the aisle someday without me. I will miss you when you begin to break free from me, and create your own lives without me. I will miss you when you take the first steps that will lead you further, further, further away from me.

But as you take those steps - I will know I did something right.

As for Lilly? She will begin Kindergarten in a few weeks. She will enter a world that is exciting, challenging, mysterious, fun - and sometimes cruel. She will come to realize that I am not her constant. I am not here with her every moment, watching over her, interceding when there are battles. She will find a way to resolve them herself. She will not have a mother lovingly interpreting her words. She will speak more clearly. She will not have a moderator solving her disagreements. She will broker a compromise.

In essence, she will let go.

And someday, not so long from now, she will be Lilly. She will be an adult. A person to influence this world. To make a difference. To love, and to be loved.

But first... she will say good-bye.

Lauri Hennessey writes this column, runs a public relations business from home, and is raising her three children - who are growing up all too quickly. You can reach her at Otisandus@earthlink.net