<a href="http://www.halfwaytonormal.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/05/2715755568_57cba1814e.jpg"><img class="alignnone size-full wp-image-352" title="2715755568_57cba1814e" src="http://www.halfwaytonormal.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/05/2715755568_57cba1814e.jpg" alt="" width="522" height="391" /></a>
<h5 style="padding-left: 390px;">Photo by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/technologik/">Technologik</a></h5>
Yesterday morning, at about 7 a.m., I was heading up I-57 toward Chicago, sitting shotgun as a fellow third-grade mom drove and another mom chatted with us from the backseat. We were making our way through a torrential downpour, at a speed that felt safe without being too safe, when a charter bus whizzed by us in the passing lane.

"Um, that bus was going pretty fast for the conditions," the mom next to me said.

"Wasn't that one of our buses?" asked the other mom, from the back seat.

It was. I instinctively hoped our daughters were on the other bus. Then I felt terrible—both buses were filled with precious third and fourth grade children from our neighborhood elementary school. I also felt slightly ridiculous. Were they really in danger, any more than they ever are? And do I really think I can protect my children by worrying?

<strong>As parents, we worry anyway. There doesn't seem to be much we can do about that, other than periodically talk ourselves—and each other—down from the brink of panic and helpless misery.</strong>

I guess it's a natural feeling, though. Somehow, when I'm the one behind the wheel of the car transporting my own flesh and blood to our destination, at least I know what's at stake. Your crazy love heightens all your senses, and your awareness of potential dangers.

That's exactly why I felt relieved, when we all reached Chicago's Field Museum, that I had offered to chaperone. I had some control over my daughter, and five of her friends. They would always be in my range of sight.

As it turns out, that was only <em>partly</em> true.
<h4>As a parent, you're never <em>completely</em> in charge</h4>
The Field Museum was extra crowded and chaotic with end-of-the-year field trips. The exhibits are mostly dark, winding and complex, with many offshoots, side rooms, and "forks in the road." At times, it feels a bit like a cornfield maze, except you're in an Egyptian tomb, or you walk around a corner and see a pack of life-like, stuffed hyenas ready to attack.

There was so much to see and explore, it was silly to think of making them all hold hands and stick together like preschoolers. Each girl had their own idea of what looked interesting within any given exhibit, and each one explores that interesting thing at her own pace. (My daughter, for instance, was the only one in our group who wanted to read <em>everything</em>. Sigh.)

More than once, I was frantically scanning the dim rooms and looking around corners, trying to locate all six children in my charge. <strong>And suddenly it occurred to me—it would be SO easy to lose track of a child at the Field Museum.</strong>
<h4>Learning to let go, a bit at a time</h4>
Five hours later, though, everyone was accounted for. After we put the 100+ kids on the two buses, I went back into the museum to buy an iced tea, put my feet up on a chair, and gaze at Sue the T-Rex's hindquarters. <strong>I needed to decompress—to let my defenses down and get used to being responsible for just <em>me</em> again.</strong>

It was a very good feeling.

And as I sat there, I realized that while nine is still very young, S and her classmates are learning a lot about how to be responsible for themselves, too, and for one another. <strong>They're at that age where they need to explore around dim corners.</strong> They need to see what an oasis in the middle of an African dessert might look like. And then they need to trust themselves to find their way back to a safer place, where they can catch their breath before setting off to explore whatever's next.