When Chicken was five years old, we had a choice to put her on a bus and send her to public school or walk her across the street to a Christian private school. The private school wasn’t great–most of their teachers were barely educated, and they thought Harry Potter taught witchcraft. But we chose to walk her across the street instead of putting her on the bus because her little boo-boo face and tiny body just seemed too fragile to send off into the world alone.
Today, I’m driving my baby down to San Diego to ditch her among strangers and throw cash in her bank account every so often while she fends for herself.
I think she might be ready– but her little boo-boo face and her wonderful Chickenness is going to be severely missed. And since I just spent fifteen minutes bawling on the cat in the bathroom, that’s about as much as I can write about her and still function on the drive. Wish me luck, everyone. And I know you wish her well.
