Last month, I left my daughter at the door of her new room-at a university almost a 1,000 miles away from our home. I'd been trying to prepare myself for the separation for months and had warned her that I cried when I left her older brother at his dorm room a few years earlier, and he was only 10 miles away! It was a long drive home.

It was just yesterday, it seems, that she was born-the surprise gift that came seven and 10 years after her big brothers. Being the older, experienced mother that I was, I wasn't going to make any parenting mistakes with her. I would love her, protect her innocence, encourage her to excel, and provide for her mental, spiritual, and health needs, so she had all the tools and support necessary to succeed. I wouldn't "do" her homework, choose her friends, or fight her battles. I would be there to share her accomplishments, wipe her tears, which I hoped were few, and give her wings when it was time. I would allow her to dream and encourage her career aspirations.

Even so, as I left her at the school she had chosen and had earned an academic scholarship to attend, I found it surprisingly painful. More painful than holding her hand during illness and several childhood surgeries, more painful than wiping her tears when she lost an athletic race, or watching her recover from broken relationships. She had worked very hard to arrive at this door-taking the SAT more than once, practicing for the college entrance verbal interviews, volunteering to show civic responsibility, as well as holding down a part time job. Her "resume" from high school looked far more impressive than my resume after college graduation.

I hugged her tight and wanted to explain that I was so proud of her and what she had accomplished in her young life. Although we would talk daily-a promise we made to each other-and see each other frequently, our relationship would change. The sadness I felt wasn't so much for the distance between us (I had hoped for a direct flight out of Peoria to her new city, and it came this summer), but more for the world I was sending her into. I had hoped the world she faced at 18 wouldn't be as frightening as the world I faced at 18.

Each generation has surely prayed that it will be better for the next. Parents desire for their children to achieve more education, financial success, and happiness than we had. The world moves so much faster than when she was born; I can't predict what she should expect in her world upon graduation in 2008. Today's evening news brings no end to economic instability, national and global terror, and incurable diseases. College education today doesn't guarantee a career head start. Pressure to succeed is high, competition is tougher, and survival is often the goal.

I felt guilt and anxiety at our parting. Did I spend enough quality time with her? Did I provide enough support for her needs? Did I provide her a positive role model? Does she really know how much I love her? Did I shelter her too much? Did I give her enough practical advice? She knows I can't fix everything, but I hope I've taught her how to make lemonade out of life's lemons. As with the previous 12 years of beginning the first day of school, I prayed she would be blessed with many friends, happy faces, good grades, and fulfillment. I prayed she be kept safe at all times, in every situation.

So with mixed emotions, I released my grip and told her not to be afraid; she was ready to fly. I just hoped her cell phone-with mom's number first-wouldn't weigh her down. TPW