This past October, our family joined a weekend “retreat to the woods” with a group from our church. As is now the global standard, the weather was unseasonably warm, the days as golden as the forest around us, so that people moved fluidly between indoors and out. Although nominally a camping trip, there were no tents required (which explains my willingness to take part). Instead, families stayed in a series of rustic little cabins, arranged in a meandering circle around the group dining hall where we prepared and took our meals together.

      About 12 hours into our stay, Ned and Helen made the delightful discovery that they could navigate the winding path to our cabin all by themselves. Even more startling, they discovered that Mom and Dad—normally prone to heart palpitations anytime a child strays more than five feet away in a public place--had dispensed with both the hand grabbing and the hand wringing for the weekend. Before long, they were tearing down the leaf-strewn path at every opportunity, rounding the corner without a backward glance, winking out of sight beneath a protective autumnal canopy. At one point, they joined a small gang of junior explorers, ranging from ages 3 to 6, who were running group tours of their respective cabins. “We’re going to Number 3!” the kids would call, dashing off for an exhilarating stretch of adultlessness. As for the big people, we looked on indulgently, as charmed as anyone by the novelty of their freedom.

      For my kids, it certainly stood in stark contrast to, say, the kind of anxious coaching from the porch that can accompany a solo walk across our quiet street: “Look both ways, look both ways, Ned. Ned? NED! Look left, look right, look left again! Do you see any cars? No, I mean any MOVING cars? Look carefully! Okay, go ahead and cross—WALK, don’t RUN!” As if anyone could help but run from that!

      I will cop to hoisting a hefty parental shield, but I also know that I’m not alone. I recently read that modern playground equipment design reflects the demands of today’s hyper-vigilant parent by affording a clear view of the recreating child from any perspective. Even at the park, our kids can run, but they can’t hide. I’ve also heard that many of today’s college students initiate regular daily contact with their parents, deserting the nest but not the branch, it seems. It’s certainly a shift from the near-total radio silence that I maintained with my folks once freshman orientation was over.

      As much as my generation of helicopter parents may wish to ignore it, a big part of our job is to negotiate departures. From the first kindergarten drop-off, to the ritual hand-off of car keys, to the final toss of the rice, releasing our kids gracefully is part of the deal. My crew is still so young that I don’t have to let go for more than a few minutes to earn that particular scouting badge. But I know the time is coming when I will have to let them depart to some unknown place for a duration not readily countable in heartbeats. And even though I’m an inveterate hoverer, I’m holding out hope that I’ll be able to manage it.

    It’s not just because of my tendency at times of greatest stress and irritation to secretly tick off the years until everyone is in college, like beads on the bad mama’s rosary. No, my belief really has its roots in a trip we took to Barcelona, Spain, when Ned was just six months old. During our last night there, we took a fashionably late dinner at an intimate, upscale restaurant in the heart of the old city. As excited by our daring as we were, Ned beamed his grin around the room, gurgling and joyous and altogether delectable. I had independent confirmation of his irresistibility when, in the middle of our second glass of wine, a fellow diner walked over, smiling broadly, and gestured for Andrew to pass Ned over. The stranger carried our boy to a table across the room, where he held court for a full ten minutes as we polished off course number three.

    Antoni Gaudi and the piles of weird seafood notwithstanding, for me, that moment captured best the sensation of being in a foreign land. I can say with fair certainty that I would not have handed off my baby to some stranger at a Perkin’s in middle America, but somehow it seemed okay in that beguiling place. Ned was so happy and charming, and the evening was so lovely and the people seemed to like him so well, that really nothing else would have done but to let him go.

     Having experienced that sensation of a good and rightful separation, however momentary, I want to believe that I will recognize and accept it in whatever forms it takes as Ned and Helen mature. As they venture forth to find their place among the world’s teeming billions, my intention is to keep the hovercraft in the hangar, and instead send them off with a warm embrace, a stout farewell, and the unspoken promise that my welcome will patiently await their return.