Two significant milestones have transpired in the past week, not including Cass snagging a pair of fashionably large sun shades. Clearly, our little hipster-in-waiting has his finger on the pulse of the outrageously au courant.

1. He is speaking real words. As in, Mama. I’m having a hard time convincing people (namely, Ryan) of this particular advancement, because he refuses to flaunt his new word in public. I’ve tried to encourage him—There’s no shame in being a mama’s boy, I say, nudging him to let it fly. Zip. I start to wonder if I made the whole thing up—repeatedly—but as soon as I’m dangerously close to caving (maybe he was just mumbling nonsense), Cass tosses it out there again, casually and in confidence, clear as a cloudless day. Mama, with his arms around my neck. Mama, grabbing the backs of my knees. Mama. Mama, with no one else to hear but me. I hatch a plan to covertly record him with my phone, download it to my iPod, so I can torment Ryan with it on car trips.

On the heels of Mama, his repertoire expanded to include Up (with a cute little hand motion) and Uh, which is the first part of Uh-Oh (also with a cute little hand motion).

2. Cass started daycare. Today was his first day. Ryan and I both dropped him off. I vowed to retain control of my emotions, unlike the day last week I took Cass to investigate the facility and cried five times. Or sobbed. And not because I didn't love it--the caregivers are as kind and patient as I could ever hope, and the program grows into a wonderful montessori preschool for tots. In my defense, I was weaning and my hormones were going totally bananas. Today, a marked improvement, I had a tiny (very controlled, very brief) cry spell after leaving him in the gated room, other toddlers buzzing around with push toys and plastic vacuum cleaners, in no particular pattern, having more fun than they’d likely be having at home in their living rooms. You went to daycare, and you’re fine. I know he’ll be fine, and in time, he might not even cry when I drop him off, forcing my stomach inside-out like an umbrella in a windstorm. With hail! And lightening, too. All in my stomach.

Just two days a week, not even a full day. But I felt woozy anyway, and already, after just one half-day, I started to get all teary-nostalgic about our glorious year together as MamaCass (our version of Brangelina). The times I wanted to swaddle him up and leave him on my neighbor’s doorstep in a wicker basket* dimming, dimming, as the rare moments when everything was perfect, peaceful and ridiculously sublime shining brighter, brighter, a postcard vignette of shared naps, raspberry blowing and open-mouth kisses. Our memories are kind and generous, and I’m thankful for that, but sometimes reality would make things a little easier.

End of his first day: he refused to eat his lunch, and he cried off and on throughout. A little clingy, they said, He’s still getting used to us. Luckily, my inner response to that isn't: I don't want him to get used to you! I just want him to love me! Only me! Because I'm his Mama, and he said my name first, and you can't take that away from me! I harbor no resentment against daycare. I want him to love these wonderful ladies and play and laugh and learn from others. I want him to be happy there and not miss me for a minute (well, maybe just for a minute). I know he will be fine.

And showing signs of that already: he loved the big buggy and giggled and waved like the late Diana Princess of Wales at all the people they passed. He even took a nap--a shocking event, considering my tormented nap routine lately.

He will be just fine.

*Not for keeps; just so I could make a deadline without gross amounts of anxiety once in awhile. I might squeeze in a pilates video and a few chapters of one of the 20 partly read books on my bedside table. But I’d claim him afterwards, I would.