“And then they were gone”

MY MEMORIES of the old, soft days of parenting seem to have merged into one — a generic day, punctuated by kisses, which went like this: “Drink your milk — last drop, one shoe on — now the other one, hold my hand, five-a-day, sharing is caring — yes — even with scones, bath-time, pyjamas, time for bed, two stories, there’s no such thing as monsters, night, night,” sofa, glass of wine, box-set.

Days from the sharper end of parenting also seem to have merged into one — another generic day, which went like this: “Up. It’s late. What do you mean you’re not going to school? Your teacher is a what? A tool? What would you do if I threw paper pellets at you while you were trying to teach French? Safe sex, no to drugs — please roll your eyes back into the forward position, yes I know you’ve heard it all before. Malboro Lights under your bed — not yours? Whose then? Really? You must think I’m a mug,” sofa, glass of wine, box-set.

Then it seems there was a short flurry of provisional driving licences, exams, CAO forms, student houses, passports, rucksacks and goodbyes.