Good-bye, little bird...and don't forget to fly home.

(My youngest daughter playing Chava in a summer production of Fiddler on the Roof.)

When you were barely 6 months old, I bundled you up and took you on the train from Tours to Paris to get your American birth certificate and Social Security number.

A formality. Just a bunch of papers. A long day.

For years, I never really thought of you as American. You've always spoken perfect French, of course, with no American accent -- amazing! You look so French, too. And you were always referred to as "one of the French girls" whenever I took you and your sister back to the USA.

Little by little, the American side of your dual nationality pushed its way out, and four years ago your 6th-grader's voice announced to me that you wanted to spend your sophomore year in the USA.

An interesting idea. A fantasy. It would go away.

It didn't.

So, after years of nurturing this plan, after two months of transition, our family came back from our American summer notably lighter.

I'm happy for you. I know you'll love your new school -- it's one of the best around. I should know: I went there as a student and spent eight blissful years teaching there:

A long hallway that will bring you plenty of memories.

"Je m'envole," I saw you write this summer as a photo caption on MySpace, Facebook or some such. That's a wonderful feeling.

I hope you can keep it up all year, but there may be a few times when you get the blues:

But you will have four generations of your American family there to buck you up.

And we'll be here too, of course: across the miles, across the ocean, across the wires.