As the elementary school’s outdoor dance festival dissolved into a free-for-all waltz party, I hoisted my 5-year-old daughter into my arms and stumbled out a 1-2-3 cadence. It was a glorious June morning in New York, and I cherished the moment — part of that brief time when kids still want to dance with their parents.

Later, after the waltz ended and I reunited my child with her kindergarten class, I endured what I call the “kinder-cling”: tears, a quivering lower lip, outstretched arms, cries of “Don’t go!” My daughter’s wonderful teacher expertly jumped in, and I did what wise fathers do in such situations: detach, walk briskly away, trust that the situation will improve once I’m no longer present, and choke back my own separation anxiety.

That instance seemed to define my daughter’s first year in elementary school. I still am a necessary and desired presence in my child’s life, but I’ve turned over tremendous responsibilities to people who ten months ago were total strangers. Teachers, classmates, principals, even other parents now often exert as much (or more) influence on my daughter as I do.

(I’ve also become aware of powerful social forces present in a large New York elementary school with a turbo-charged parent association. I didn’t think sending my kid to kindergarten would lead me to adopt a whole new social circle, but that’s pretty much what happened. Two phrases keep echoing in my brain: “You will be assimilated” from Star Trek, and “Your people shall be my people” from the Book of Ruth. If those words aren’t in the school’s parent handbook, they ought to be.)<!--more-->

Just as important, my child’s personality is rapidly evolving. It recently dawned on me that a whole imaginary family — a dozen fictional siblings and cousins who last year were a constant invisible presence in our one-child household — had not been mentioned in months. When I asked about their whereabouts, my daughter casually said they were “away.” I suppose a kindergarten class of 24 other kids supplies enough real drama that fictional characters become superfluous.

I knew all these changes would happen, because it’s what elementary school is designed to do. Good teachers educate and mold children more expertly than I can. Criticism from a classmate will deflate a young ego faster than any timeout issued by a parent. We raise children to be well equipped for the real world, but that world doesn’t appear the day they turn 21. It arrives in chunks, often one school day at a time.

And so I waltzed with my clingy kindergartner, enthusiastically returning her embrace, unsure how much longer such displays of affection will be tolerated. Soon, the notion of dancing with your dad at a school function will be, like, totally gross, and “Don’t go!” will be replaced by “Why are you still here?” Like a child’s imaginary family, some things simply go away.