The Last Term of Parenting As We Knew It

Today is the first day of the last term of parenting as we know it.

For over a decade, Monday mornings have meant early alarms, kids yawning into their Weet-Bix, frantic searches for school shoes and ties, a quick peck on the cheek—out the door they go and off to school.

They’ve been happy times. Not serene or still—plenty of shouting, squabbling and shoving—but good. And I’ve tried, especially in recent years, to savour this era for what it is: fleeting.

Next term, Ed—our eldest—heads off to university. Paddy will be the last one left at home. The bustle, the banter, the breakfast table jousting will be over. The constant cacophony of childhood will fall silent.

Many years ago, during Ed’s last week of primary school, I took a photo of half a dozen jade Sumner School shirts on the washing line. Different sizes, all hanging together. A quiet, visual reminder of how close they were—and how quickly things change.
Last week, I stood in the laundry folding his shirts again, aware that in just a few weeks I’d never be washing them again. The end is in sight.

I’ve cherished these years. Living under one roof has brought deep joy, despite the daily madness and arguments. I hope I’ll never forget the simple pleasure of coming home from a morning run, catching the smell of toast from next door and smiling—Rachel dishing out breakfast and love to her crew. Then opening our front door to find our three lined up at the kitchen bench going through the motions.

In the early years, they’d be pushing and bickering over toast, Abi stirring her food, Ed hating mornings, Paddy spilling everything. In later years, the chaos calmed. Fewer arguments, more last-minute searches for phones, laptop chargers and car keys. Then suddenly, they’re gone—and I’m alone with the marmite, the leftover eggs, and silence.

All good things end. All children leave. That’s the job: to raise them with love and to let them go. [And goodness I'm grateful to have had the opportunity at all, given the gift of parenting isn't universally granted.] 

We signed up for this. But knowing it doesn’t make it easier.

They’re leaving. And we stay behind—just the two of us. Back to the beginning.

All those years building the nest, and now the emptying brings its own peculiar grief.

We know, intellectually, what good parenting is. That our job is to build secure attachments so they can walk into the world feeling confident, cared for, and free to love others well. That’s the work. The psychology is clear.

But still—knowing that helps only so much.
I’m going to miss you, Ed.

When you started primary school, someone asked if those early years had gone quickly. I practically snorted. “Those were the longest five years of my life.” It was hard—all the feeding, bathing, nappies, endless laundry. But then came the primary school years, three kids at the same school, walking distance from home. Someone once told me those would be the zenith of parenting. They were right in many ways.

But I’ve loved the teenage years too. The slow, sweet realisation that it wouldn’t always be like this—us, all together, under one roof. My sister’s kids left home first, so watching them go made me appreciate my three sitting around the kitchen bench long before Abi died.

And now we’re at the end of it.
And yes, I know—also at the beginning of something new.

But it’s hard.
Knowing his towel won’t be on the bathroom floor.
That we can run the tap in the kitchen sink without him storming out of the shower to glare at us.

Family life has been so good.
Started slow.
Ended quick.