When you find yourself on the cusp of a milestone, you pack all the necessary devices to capture the moment. Like the first-time parents that we are, we arrived at Ava’s school with more cameras than children. While Ava’s first day of Kindergarten is well documented in still and motion pictures, there are pictures that I want to retain that can’t be captured by a camera.

As I lay in my bed that night waiting for sleep to find me, images of the day swirled in mind my like a kaleidoscope. At each interval a picture would come into focus, I would fend off sleep with more chuckles and tears.

Ava threw open her door that morning like leading lady making her grand appearance on stage. “I’m so excited!” she declared still holding onto the handle with one and the other stretched out to the ceiling.

Her enthusiasm sent her dashing through the morning of “A”-shaped pancakes and starched-new uniforms. She came into my room shaking her curls and twirling her tartan skirt.

“Oh Mama, you look beautiful. But you need a little spray for your hair and some make up on your eyes. ‘Kay. Oh, you smell so good, Mama! So get your spray hair and then you’ll be ready,” she said as she waved her hand and spun out of the room.

If there was ever a day for your Mama to look good, it would most certainly be the first day of Kindergarten.

The three of us walked into her school hand-in-hand, but I don’t think Ava’s feet ever touched the ground.  We headed toward the great common room where the students were to meet their teachers. And all the bravado of the morning melted in the wake of the frenzy that was spread out before us.

In the blur of the pandemonium, I felt the weight of familiar little hand press into mine as she leaned her head into my side. Together we watched big school kids dash by with even bigger backpacks; new parents exchange hellos as jittery children darted between their legs; and the occasional weeping little one clinging to the hand of confident older sibling.

In the midst of the chaos we had carved out our own circle of calm.

When her final classmate arrived, Mr. K asked his kindergartners to line up. I let go of Ava’s hand and said, “It’s time to get in line now.” I thought we would be following her to her classroom to hear a story. She grabbed onto my hand again, and once again I let it go, encouraging her to get in line.

And before I realized it was the end, she was marching away.

In less than a moment I heard the beep of HungryMan’s camcorder signaling that he had stopped recording. I realized that there was nothing left to record. She had turned the corner and was gone.

Then came the tears.

“Rachel, we’re picking her up in three hours.”

“I know, but she was holding my hand, and I let it go.”

And then more tears.

The two of us walked out to our car, where I sat down and cried. I really didn’t expect to cry, but there I was laughing at myself as the tears kept coming wreaking havoc on the commissioned eye make-up.

And three hours later, my sweet bundle of happiness came skipping back into view.

“Oh Mama! It was so much fun! It was better than I thought. I love kindergarten! I love Mr. K. He’s the best teacher. He’s better than a girl teacher! It was so much fun. I want to do it again!”

There was so much to say; there was no time for breathing.

In those short three hours, she had accumlated enough stories to share for the remainder of the day. And each new tale is concluded with, “I just really love school, Mama!”

When this day’s joyous pictures blend and blur into other happy school memories, the moment I will cling to is her warm little hand holding mine.

And as this is only the beginning of so many independent adventures, know sweet Ava, my hand is always here.