It's that time of year again. Parents all over the country are getting ready to let go of their kids. For our family, it means that our younger son Sam will start kindergarten next Monday. For our neighbors, it means that their older daughter is starting college.

My kids have always made this easy for me. My older son Max's first complete sentence was, "Daddy, go home." We had just arrived at a neighbor's house for a play date. He was eighteen months old, and already he was ready put some distance between himself and the parental units.

I guess that attitude is hard-wired.

Some parents will also argue that the need to hover over their children is hard-wired as well, even though I've never felt that urge. I'm always happy to see my boys wander off and experience the world on their own terms. Sure, there are rules they have to follow (and punishments if those rules are disobeyed), but the goal is to make them self-sufficient. Do I really want either of my boys (or, shudder, both) to be living in my house when I'm sixty? Not unless it's a matter of life and death. As in, their lives and my death. They're welcome to be in my house once I've left the building. Until then, adult children get to find their own domiciles.

Oh, I'm not that much of a meanie. I understand that there are circumstances beyond normal control where children do need an emergency lifeline. On the other hand, I'd rather my kids work to figure out their own lives rather than wait for me (or my wife) to fix their lives for them.

The last time I lived with my parents, I had just turned 18 and finished my freshman year of college. It was pretty much a nightmare of a summer. I was used to doing my own thing, and my parents were used to the idea of living with a high school kid who pretty much toed the line. I wasn't going out and getting drunk (it's still hard to find good beer in Clovis, N.M.), but I was staying out late and trying to sleep in, even on days I was expected to open the bookstore. I was mostly responsible, but the "mostly" caused a lot of problems.

I had wanted to come home for the summer. My first year of college was a lot of fun, but I hadn't fully integrated myself into the campus. I wasn't exactly homesick, but I didn't have any reason to stay in Missouri, either. That summer, I resolved to join the student newspaper and the student-run radio station at the start of my sophomore year. I did that and more, and I never have had the urge to live at home again.

I've been reading all sorts of stories about helicopter parents and the policies some colleges and universities are adopting to deal with such involvement. Maybe it's because I was raised by very early baby boomers (the types who don't seem to be nearly as self-absorbed as the later members of their generation), but that was never a problem for us. My mom or dad would drive me to school, make sure I got all my stuff in my room, and then leave. Maybe I was like my older son, obviously trying to hold my parents at arm's length. I'm not sure. But my parents have always had a healthy appreciation for what is their life and what is my life.

I think that's the issue with the helicopter types. I've read stories of parents who hang around campus for a day or two (or even a week or two) after "dropping off" their child. Sure, my parents visited. On a couple of rare occasions, one or both visited for two or three days. But that's a visit. This notion of hanging out, "fixing" classes for children and the like...um, I couldn't do that. Max would never allow it, and Sam would simply laugh at the attempt.

I remember Max's first day of Kindergarten. We walked him to school, and Sam rode on my shoulders. As we approached the front doors, I stopped to let Sam down. Big mistake. Max accelerated and disappeared into the crowd.

"You know where his room is, right?" I asked my wife.

"Yes," she said. And she led the way. After we finally negotiated the crowded hallways, we found Max already ensconced in his classroom. He'd put up his backpack and was already talking to some kids he'd met in the previous minute. We said hello to his teacher, handed off the bag of school supplies (supplies to be used in the classroom are aggregated and handed out by the teacher as they are needed) and then said goodbye to Max. He may have given my wife a hug; I'm not sure. But it wasn't one of those tear-wrenching scenes. Sure, my wife was a bit worked up about her child entering Kindergarten (as most moms are, I've found), but our son was ready for Kindergarten from minute one.

Sam has been ready for Kindergarten for at least a year. Almost every day last year, he would ask if he could stay at Max's school rather than go to his preschool. He loved his preschool and his preschool friends, but he really wanted to be a Kindergartner.

In a week, he'll get his chance. His mom will sniffle a few tears and pry a hug out of him. His older brother will give him a hug--the one hug that he will willingly accept. And I'll wave goodbye. He won't notice, and he won't care. He'll be in Kindergarten, and life will be good.

As for his parents, we'll get one more reminder of how fleeting life can be. I suppose it's bittersweet for some, but mostly I'm happy. It's a lot harder to be a parent if you can't enjoy watching your kids grow up, secure in the knowledge that one day you'll have absolutely no control over their lives. I'm more interested in what they will do than what they've done. I guess that's why we invest so much in our children. They are the means by which we will live on, even after we're gone.

That's cool. And if all I get is a half-hearted wave in return, I'll accept that happily.

Every morning, Jon Worley walked two blocks to Kindergarten without the benefit of parental participation. He walked home the same way.