That smile. That heartbreaking smile.

We've had a tough night previous, on the way to bedtime, the little A and her Mama. And now we are dressed, and on our way to school. Not the first bus that I like better, but still going to be on time. Things are good. We are walking.

"I will go to kindergarten, too, mama!" she says, huge grin of imagined joys splashing across her face.

And although my first reaction is to smile with her and ask "You will?! Will that be fun?", my second reaction, what seems like only 1/2 a second later is this deep ache in my heart.

For all the things that kindergarten won't be like. For the kid who might bully her (I never consider she might one day be the bully). For the teacher who won't understand what she is trying to say and doesn't give her the benefit of the doubt. For whatever unidolphincorn she thinks will be the class pet, drinking their snowflake water and fairy-dusted snacks. For the let down.

I should just let her have the thought. And I do. But I should let myself see her happy now, and not see myself in that toothy grin, announcing I'm going to have a second child (and then having to announce later that that didn't work out), or that I'm moving to Switzerland and then hitting the reality of living in a foreign country with no family network.

I guess that deep ache is for my dashed hopes.

And yet, for those moments, before reality set it, I was happy just imagining. So maybe it is okay to just be happy in the moment of expectation, and then take life as it comes.

I'm not sure. She, just like I, takes it very hard when things aren't as she hoped. Her excuse is that she is a toddler with a still developing brain. My excuse has yet to make it to the foreground.

We round the corner, headed for the stop of the bus that will take us up the hill. We talk about the possibility that she may get to "in front", as she always hopes to sit on the buses. From sitting in front at 8:45am, to a no tantrum bedtime - even though we come close when I've told her again not to pull a toilet roll fixture (I have very important priorities, you see) and she slaps my face with both hands, and I leave and she cries. But from somewhere I haven't been able to draw on other nights, I let her cry for a bit without yelling at her, and then come back to ask if it was a mistake. We wash her hands, get her in pajamas and a blanket-rich stroller for the night ride to walk the dog one last time.

Bedtime is mostly smooth, definitely smoother than last night. And I realize writing this that maybe the unanticipated joys of one calmer evening, brought about by intention-driven actions on my part, more than makes up for the disappointing realities of beautiful dreams.

Happy Valentine's Day, A.