When I started taking you to church for Mother’s Day Out, you would wrap yourself around my leg and howl.  The gentle teachers would pry apart your grasping arms and fold you into a hug and carry you into the classroom while you sobbed.  You wore red cowboy boots every day that summer, and you brought Pink Bear everywhere, to bed, to the park, to Grandma’s house, to church.  You would hold on tight to that bear even as they carried you wailing into the classroom. I would hide behind the door and watch as you struggled to comfort yourself.  You would sit in a corner with Pink Bear and bury your face in his fuzzy tummy as you cried.  You would peek at the kids who came over to invite you to finger paint, then shake your head, bury your face, cry some more.   Your teachers and friends learned to leave you alone while you and Pink Bear worked things out.  Eventually, on your own good time, you would tuck Pink under your arm, march to the water table in those clumpy red boots, and start playing.  When I came to pick you up, you were always excited, babbling about your friends, proud of your latest piece of art and happy face stickers.     

But you would forget all about the happy times when we next walked up the stairs of our church to that classroom.  Again the wrenching sobs, the desperate clinging.  Again, the long minutes of watching while you and Pink Bear mended your broken heart.   

How did I manage to leave you at all in the face of this terrible grief?  Possibly it was because you grieved when I left you anywhere, for any amount of time.  You were very attached to me in those days.  I would carry you on one hip while I carried in the dry cleaning because if I left you in the car seat, you would scream.  You would ride in the grocery cart, but always wanted to hold on to one of my hands while we shopped.  I was just exhausted from all the togetherness.  I needed time apart from you, some me time, a mother’s day out.   

You grew out of the crying and the clinging, but you kept the red boots through kindergarten.  And even when you outgrew the red boots, you kept Pink Bear.  He did not go with you to school, but he tagged along everywhere else.  He watched while you and your friends swam in the backyard pool.  He slept with you every night.  He traveled with us on every vacation.  I became as paranoid and protective of Pink Bear as I would an extra child.  If we lost him, how would you ever overcome it?  How would I?  Pink Bear was irreplaceable.   

You’re a teenager now, one year from high school.  You wear mascara and eyeliner.  You carry your cell phone everywhere and you’re a wicked-fast texter.  You have a MySpace and a Facebook and a boyfriend.  You run track, sing in the choir, and you’ve started an environmental awareness club at your school:  H.O.P.E. – Help Our Planet Earth.  There is in you not one breath of clinginess.

But Pink Bear sleeps with you still.  He’s not pink anymore; after all the traveling and washing, he’s sort of an off-white, and his plastic eyes are scratched – stuffed animal cataracts.  You still think highly of him: during your last mall trip, you bought him new bear clothes to cover his bald patches.  But I wondered, would this be the year you would start to feel too embarrassed to bring your bear along in front of your friends?  You were all set to leave for the church mission trip.  We would not be going with you.  Would Pink? 

We arrived at church with your suitcase and sleeping bag and stood by the same stairs we once climbed for Mother’s Day Out.  You saw friends and raced to join them, negotiating who would sit by who for the trip.  I loaded your suitcase and you boarded the bus.  You did not hug me; you did not, in fact, even say goodbye.  You were eager for some time apart from your dad and me, some friend time, a teenager’s week out.   

I texted you as I drove away.  “Bye daughter.  Love you.  Have a great trip.  Do you have Pink Bear?” A few minutes later my phone buzzed.  “ty mom luv u 2.  dont worry about pink i have him hes safe.” 

Keep a good eye on Pink, baby girl.  Remember you’re carrying my heart, too.