Rob and Scarlett spent last weekend skiing in Lake Tahoe. It is well established in my family that Rob would spend every weekend in Tahoe if this were possible. He even announced recently that he would like us to move there for the month of February 2016, which to me sounded bizarre and slightly arbitrary, but to him sounds like living the dream. Never mind that we would have to take Scarlett out of kindergarten for a month, which is totally not happening, unless Rob thinks that she will be home-schooled by squirrels.

But, I mean, not to be a total killjoy. Maybe it could work.

(It could not work.)

This year, to support my husband and his love of all things mountainous, I committed to going to Tahoe once a month for the winter. It’s not very much, but we have a surprisingly busy schedule of visitors and events, so it’s the best we could do.

And then on our first trip there, in January, Rob presented a new idea: A trip to Tahoe for just him and Scarlett. I greeted this proposal with all the maturity of a child who has been told they will not be having dessert for the rest of their life.

Rob persisted. He explained to me that he and Scarlett get so little time together, just the two of them, and that it was important to him that they build a strong bond. He wanted to ski with his daughter, and start a lasting tradition. Plus “she’s different when she’s just with me,” he said. “She listens to me.”

This made sense. But, even as I tried to be a grown-up person, I did not like it. At a base level, I felt kind of sad to be excluded. And on a deeper level, I had…slightly deeper feelings. I had to acknowledge that part of the reason I didn’t want them to go away is because I was scared that it was the start of a new phase of ALS. This is the reality, I thought. They need to learn to live without me.

Once I finally (this took weeks) separated myself from my own hurt feelings, what I was left with is the knowledge that my husband is a pretty incredible dad. And that he’s right to want time with his little girl. ALS does make our situation different, but I’m not perishing anytime soon. Which means that I am not a dying mom, being abandoned by the people she needs most. I’m just your garden variety control freak.

I got really good advice, after Scarlett was born, from a friend who said “Let Rob figure things out on his own and build his own relationship with her. You’ll be with her more. You WILL know more. But you can’t tell him how to be her Dad.”

As with all good advice I receive, I ignored this completely.

No, that’s not true. I heard it, I tried to follow it. But it was hard. I felt like I had a lock on this kid, on what she needed and wanted, on what she was thinking. Sometimes I would feel lousy, and Scarlett would cry for no reason, and I was sure that she was just voicing my emotions. I knew we were a family of three, but there were times when I thought she was just an extension of me.

That’s the attitude that resurfaced when Rob said he wanted to go away with her. You’re taking a part of me away for the weekend? I thought, in disbelief. How will the rest of me survive?

Even my friends who do not have disabilities or serious illnesses were split on this. “OH MY GOD!” one of them exclaimed. “I WISH Elmo* would take the kids away for the weekend.” This reaction was seconded, thirded, ninthed. But other friends were slow to warm to the idea, like I had been. I knew they were thinking that it doesn’t feel good to have members of your family anxious to go have a great time without you—when the you not being there part is central to the plan.

*names have been changed. But that was probably obvious.

When Rob and Scarlett returned, I was still alive. I’d had a fun weekend with my sister, her husband, and my 2-year-old nephew, Jack, who displayed some new dance moves that I will not soon forget. Think flowing ballet arms, followed by a scene from Magic Mike.

I also faced the fact that I’m not the only person—or the only parent—in this family. Rob is going to do things his way, and that’s good. It’s a lesson I’ve had to relearn (and relearn and relearn) over the past 5 years, and I thought about it again as he put Scarlett to bed last night.

“Can you sing Angel From Montgomery?” I heard her ask.

“I can sing some of it,” he replied. “I don’t know all the words.”

“Mommy knows all the words,” she said.

“Yes,” he agreed. And then he launched into the song.

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