She is my first child, and it is her first day of kindergarten. Like countless parents before me, I'm about to experience my first big rite of passage. I've tried to prepare myself, but I still don't know quite what to expect.

It is time to begin the journey. Abby's hair has been braided, cereal eaten, teeth brushed, peanut butter and jelly sandwich assembled. She continues her song as we pull out of the driveway and head toward Greater Plains.

We find a spot in the crowded parking lot and walk, holding hands, to the sidewalk. A school bus is parked in the drive, and a stream of parents and kids flows in and out of the door to the kindergarten and first-grade wing.

Abby stands on the grass in front of the school in her yellow dress and shiny black Mary Janes. She's carrying a hot-pink, plastic Barbie lunch box. I'm carrying memories of first words, chubby cheeks, shaky steps. Abby smiles for the camera.

Click. A moment, frozen.

We enter the school and start walking down the noisy hallway. Kids are moving in every direction, and Abby chatters excitedly, her head bobbing this way and that as she takes it all in: the unnaturally shiny white floor; the teachers leaning in doorjambs, smiling at kids and saying hello to parents as they pass.

We arrive at the classroom and quickly locate the wooden cubby with Abby's name on it. Kids are stowing away lunches and plastic cups. Parents clutch rest mats and boxes of tissues, not sure where to set them down. The cubby area is not meant for so many grown-ups: We find ourselves caught in an awkward traffic jam.

Boys are on the floor in one corner, playing noisily with blocks and cars. Nearby, girls are putting on dress-up clothes. Mrs. Baskin is running around trying to talk to everyone. She greets us and welcomes Abby. It is time to say goodbye.

We each kneel down to give Abby a kiss and a tight hug. I try not to get choked up. "This was easier than I thought it would be," I think, standing. And then I turn and notice she is still hugging her daddy, and she doesn't seem to want to let go. Tears trickle down her cheeks.

We try to disengage ourselves, and Mrs. Baskin notices this from across the room. "Abby, could you come over and sit by me?" she asks, announcing that it is time for all the kids to gather on the rug.

We take our cue and head toward the door. As we walk out, I turn and look over my shoulder, smiling and waving goodbye. Abby is standing up, craning her neck to see us over the cubbies. She is still crying. My own tears spring free, and I can't look back again.

We walk out the door.

"She's not crying anymore. I looked, and she's not crying anymore," reports a fellow parent.

I can only nod.

My husband's hand rests on the small of my back as we walk down the blurry hallway.

It is empty now, and it suddenly seems very, very long.

——

Seven school days later, I'm looking in on the same empty hallway, one of about a dozen parents waiting outside for the 3 o'clock bell.

The bell rings, and the door swings open. "You can come in now," says a serious sixth-grader in a bright-orange safety patrol sash.

And the hallway comes alive. I zigzag around parents, kids and teachers as I make my way toward the kindergarten classrooms.

Abby peeks out the doorway. "Mommy!" she shouts, when she spots me. We walk toward one another, quickly narrowing the gap.

"Look at the book I got at the library today," she says, insisting I squat down right there in the hallway as she flips through each page.

Abby hands me her Take-Home Folder, her lunch box, her pink sweatshirt. She will carry the library book.

The walk down the hall goes quickly, as Abby chatters about her Secret Barbie Club and the games she played in gym class.

"Goodbye Edward!" ... "Goodbye Jessica!" ... "Goodbye Drue!" she says, as we step out into the sunlight.

It's Friday, and I am thinking about my weekend homework: PTO activity sign-ups, school forms to fill out and a trip to the grocery store, where I will stock up on lunch-box staples.

I know this is only the beginning. There will be more first days, more rites of passage, more new responsibilities, more mixed emotions.

But what strikes me now, at the end of this beginning, is how quickly one door closes and another opens.

——

Lisa Miller is The Daily Star's community editor. She can be reached at (607) 441-7216 or lmiller@thedailystar.com.