Her lower lip was sticking out in a pout, as if she wanted to be there in that preschool music class, tromping around the room with toy dinosaurs and dancing around with pom-poms to swing music with all the happy, footloose and fancy free tots.

For all the mentions of knuckle sandwiches and my inability to deal with her newfound grasp of all that is terrible about two this past week, I really did hurt for her, as I once knew what it was like to be small and on the outside looking in, just waiting, waiting, waiting for this turn that seemed like it would never come.

And yet, I hurt for me too: The first available spot in said lovely, lovely preschool was not until September 2019, some seven months from now.

With that in mind, my lower lip thrust out and began to quiver in unison with hers. While we were both desperate (for different reasons) to have her in that class roaring like a Jurassic Avery and dancing like Madonna in “A League of Their Own,” I, at least, had this weird and unexpected wistfulness for a time when she was keen on curling up in my lap and just being.

I didn’t know that pain of separation was so complicated and began so soon.