AS I BEGIN MY 58TH YEAR, I feel blessed that my children are healthy, independent adults. So much time has passed and yet it seems like just yesterday I watched Anna and Ben take their first steps. Raising them, I released my grip slowly while they dashed to independence.

We weren’t in the military, but my children led the lives of army brats, moving from one community to another every few years. The hope I once had to raise them in a single community fell by the wayside as my then-husband’s job changes mandated each move. In the process, my children experienced early lessons in leaving behind the people they loved.

One year, Anna had left the close-knit Montessori school where she had attended preschool, kindergarten, first grade and most of second grade. Her classmates made her a large going-away card with pink construction paper. A glossy image cut from a women’s magazine, pasted on the front of the card, featured the shattered remains of a drinking glass, scattered on a kitchen floor.

“Why did your classmates choose this picture?” I asked.

Anna explained, “If someone moves away, it is like a broken glass because the sad feelings can never be repaired.”

Leaving her teachers and classmates behind was like losing a second family. She faced attending a much larger school, one with traditional, directed instruction instead of the independent learning environment in which she had thrived.

The first morning I took Anna to her new school, we walked to the door of her classroom. She seemed excited yet timid. When I picked her up at the day care room in the afternoon she was busy making a craft project with a new friend. So far so good.

There were dark times. Making friends wasn’t always easy and there were days when she longed for her old school. In Montessori school, the children moved around the room on their own; not so in her new classroom. “I want my freedom back!” she said. Fortunately, a loving teacher and the after-school staff helped ease her transition.

One day Anna came home with a bagful of papers and class projects. She shared her treasures and showed me a card. “Look, it’s a birthday party invitation.” I felt happy for her and relieved that she’d made new friends at school.

That year Anna showed more grace under pressure than her 2-year-old brother Ben. He reacted to change by howling. He wanted life to continue with Sophie, the cheerful woman with whom he had happily spent much time during his two years.

While I taught school, Sophie treated Ben to freshly cooked Chinese cuisine, healthy soups and other dishes of chopped vegetables, meats, and “noo-no,” as he called her noodles. Much of the time he was the only child in her care. Every morning he confidently waddled into her apartment as if he owned the place.

Their father and I delayed the separation issues by inviting Sophie to stay at our new home and care for Ben during the days following our move. After she went home, Ben wandered into the guest room and called out Sophie’s name, trying his best to invoke her presence. I explained that she would not always live with us, reassured him over and over that it would be OK. His laments changed to “Sophie gone.”

I soon found Carey, a caregiver who combined raising her son with running a day care home for other 2-year-olds. At first Ben held out, muttering, “Sophie. No Carey,” on our morning drives. He wailed as I retreated to the car, feeling like mud.

It came as a small consolation to learn later that sometime in the second week the tears had stopped before my car reached the end of the block. Our goodbyes became happier for both of us.

Just when I thought Ben was all set, one afternoon the weeping returned. At home I discovered the distinctive blisters of chicken pox. Anna soon broke out, too, and we all stayed home until the illness passed.

When we were back on our regular routine, I asked Ben if he loved Carey. He nodded yes. I gulped because I wasn’t the only star in his galaxy. Then he said, “Love you, too.”

The years raced by. I continually rediscovered that no matter how carefully I made arrangements for my children, I could only take them so far. I longed to hold them forever. They had their own steps to take. Places to go. People to meet.

I love them. Their lives are their own.

Kristine Mietzner is a Benicia writer. Email her at kristine2770@yahoo.com.