It was a sultry summer morning when I made my maiden voyage to the child-care center where I would part ways with my son, Cooper, for the first time in his 9-week-old life. It was an event I’d been dreading since the moment the pregnancy stick turned pink. Prior to Coop’s arrival, my husband, Chris, and I struggled with infertility for three years before a round of an ovulation-inducing drug started us on the path to parenthood. As a working mom who enjoys her career as a marketing copywriter, I’d known that this path would inevitably lead to this moment of separation, but that didn’t make it any easier. While making my way to the child-care center, with Coop looking extremely cute in his car seat and oblivious to my worries, I felt overwhelmed with self-doubt. Was I shortchanging my son by going back to work? Would I be able to place Cooper in the arms of another, walk away and still breathe? My thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a siren and a flurry of red lights in my rearview mirror. I was being pulled over. “You in a hurry?” the officer asked. “I’m sorry. I’m a new mom. I’m taking my son to child care for the first time and I’m terrified. And I’m running late. I’m also horribly lost,” I stammered. He poked his head into my window, checking the backseat to make sure there was, in fact, a baby in the car. “Are you looking for the day care at Longview Baptist Church?” he asked, examining my driver’s license and insurance card. “No, the Family Life something something Center. I can’t even remember the name,” I conceded. What kind of mother doesn’t even know the name of her baby’s child-care center? “Slow it down,” he said. I sat for a moment, willing my muscles to unclench. As the officer pulled out of view, I let out a long sigh of relief. Just as I did, Coop started wailing from the backseat. “Okay, baby,” I said to his cries. “We’re going.” I called Chris at work to get the name and address of the child-care center. “It’s going to be okay, I promise,” he consoled as I turned the car around. I’d missed the turn by half a mile. Five minutes later I pulled up to the door of the child-care center. There, in that parking lot, I felt I would have given anything to head back home and spend the day with my son. Instead, I took a deep breath, grabbed the diaper bag and scooped the car seat and Coop up in my arms. As I made my way to the check-in desk, I could feel my cheeks flush, my ears fill with a deafening silence. I trained my eyes on my son’s and whispered, “We can do this, little man.” I paused a moment, then affirmed, “Mommy can do this.” I handed Coop’s enrollment forms to Ms. Francis, the center director, who reminded me of a sweet, soft-spoken grandmother. As she led me down the colorful corridor to the infant classroom, panic plagued me. What if Cooper starts crying and his teachers don’t know to sing “The Itsy Bitsy Spider” to soothe him? I had to remember to tell them to do this. As Ms. Francis opened the door, a handful of excited little ones looked toward us. They had bright eyes and smiles and were eager to welcome my little guy into their inner sanctum. “Cooper’s here! Cooper’s here!” the teachers announced joyfully to the class. I could see they had already adorned his crib and cubbyhole with nameplates dotted with smiley faces and flowers. A beautiful glow emanated from the toy-filled room. I unbuckled the harness of Cooper’s car seat, maneuvered him out from under his blanket and pulled him to my chest. I could feel his breath on my neck, his little lips puckering as if to kiss me goodbye. “I love you,” I whispered in his ear. I placed my child in the caring hands of his teacher, and as I looked at him once more, my chin began to quiver and uncontrollable tears streamed down my cheeks. “Bye-bye, baby,” I said to Cooper, to reassure him that everything would be okay. “Cooper is going to be fine,” Ms. Francis said. “And you’ll be fine, too.” I walked out the door and got into my car. The day passed in a blur. Though I was distracted, I did my best to maintain a happy disposition at work. I faltered, however, when a coworker asked how I was doing after she heard that today was Coop’s first at child care. “I’m hanging in,” I replied, choking back the lump that had formed in my throat. “I remember that day,” she offered empathetically, as she also had a young son. “It’ll get easier, I promise.” I knew she was right. But not today. Today was agonizing. I called to check on Coop during my lunch hour and was happy to hear that my husband had already phoned twice. “Cooper is doing great,” his teacher said. “He drank all of his bottle, and he’s been napping now for about twenty minutes.” At 5:00 p.m. sharp, I made a beeline for the parking garage. I blazed my way through rush-hour traffic, single- mindedly focused on seeing my son. As I hit a frustrating patch of gridlock, my husband called to let me know he was on his way to pick up Coop. “We’ll see you at home soon,” he said. The traffic began to move again. I counted down the seconds until I could embrace my chubby little guy in my arms. About an hour later, I walked into the house and made my way to the bedroom—and stopped dead in my tracks. There, in the middle of the bed, lay my husband with our tiny son nestled under his arm. As the late afternoon sun filtered through the window, I could see their chests rising and falling in synchronized harmony. They were perfectly, blissfully asleep. As I watched them cocooned in a moment I dared not disturb, I was filled with a sense of calm and serenity. And it was then that I realized I was no longer in a hurry. No longer in pain. No longer the mommy who couldn’t function in the absence of her child. “Bye-bye, baby,” I said. This time, I was speaking to myself.

Tessa Falk The Colony, TX Working Mother reader