The switch goes on, my son, my son
The switch goes on, and it'll never turn off
Oh won't you stay, you'll be so far away
Before you know, oh no
- Don McGlashan (The Switch)
It is an image that might well stay with me for quite some time: two boys, hand in hand, strolling towards the school gate.
Although one is 20 months younger than the other, they take up roughly the same amount of airspace, even if one declares he is the skinniest in the family. For once, they even manage to walk at the same pace, even if one declares he is the fastest in the family.
Perhaps a better gauge of their respective ages can be found amid the sward of forest green-on-green items of uniform that clog the washing machine, washing line or washing basket, depending on the day of the week and the disposition of those whose duty it is to deal with signs of zip distress, frayed knees and felt-tip stains.
Who would have thought the humble polar fleece could be elevated to the status of metaphor?
Yet there you have it: two green jackets, one with a collar chewed and discoloured; the other spotless, its future state of repair likely dependent on what ensues on a school's grass and concrete play areas, where important lessons are learned.
George, the owner of that impeccable coat, might be excited about starting school but he displays a coolness that would make the most undemonstrative teen lift an eyebrow in acknowledgement. Certainly, his behaviour differs to that of older sibling Billy, whose inquisitive nature often has him inhaling toast and exhaling information with equal gusto at breakfast.
Aloofness aside, our household has, for the past couple of months, reverberated to a familiar refrain ("how many sleeps until ... ?"). A bedtime routine comprising equal parts excitement and trepidation has not so much been forgotten as packed away, a realisation by all concerned that this family is unlikely to navigate that terrain again.
As if to confirm, George has gently turned down my offer to accompany him to class. It might only be his second day at school, but he's adamant his brother takes him.
The big moment we've all been building towards has dissipated into the background noise of other recent memories, including a kindergarten farewell ceremony featuring a feather cape and a towering crown resplendent with photos of friends and family members whom even the young suspect will not always be around. Oh, and a song that suggests it's best not to sit under a poo tree.
And, just like that, just like the car from which two boys have departed, I'm left idling for a while.
There's a stanza in New Zealand poet Bill Manhire's Children in which he refers to parents experiencing a sense of "indefinite postponement" in regards their offspring.
Given Manhire's skill, this coupling of words is unsurprisingly nuanced.
Does he mean postponement is unachievable, that despite wishful thinking, our children will grow up and grow old?
Or does he mean we can hold on to moments, cherish them and replay them at will?
But I'll also beware the opposite response, which denies any discussion of that sense of loss felt when witnessing the shedding of yet another layer of innocence. Surely, there must be a middle ground, where growth of parents and progeny is charted in parallel.
From a purely practical perspective, life has just got a little easier.
The weekday drop-offs and pick-ups remain a duty loosely shared on the basis of who's doing what and when or, let's be honest, who can be bothered.
However, now kindergarten and child care are out of the equation, there are fewer places we are required to pull into, fewer sites in which to search for misplaced bags/jackets/hats/gloves/books/friends. A once steep learning curve seems to have flatlined a little. It might not be respite care per se, but you take what you can get.
This week heralded the realisation that lunch breaks are now all mine.
Cue the cackle from Sesame Street character The Count. The flipside is a house (I work from home) abruptly devoid of chatter, clatter and endless questions for many hours at a time. A decision on which is preferable is pending.
Though no antenatal group I've heard of ever warns of the spectre of paradigm shifts, the blogosphere is fertile ground; stay-at-home mums and dads offer grief-laden torrents, recalling the day/time/hour when their youngest one's roll call arrived and prompted a revision of their elders' roles.
Among those whose days are filled with colleagues rather than children there are some seemingly less prone to this preview of what has been dubbed "empty nest syndrome", when offspring supposedly leave the home for good (well, perhaps a few months at a time).
Others look at the pros all this new-found time allows. Like a 5-year-old's drawings, scenarios might be complex or dazzlingly simple: a new job, an old job, big steps or small ones.
In our household, apart from a doubling of homework and a halving of petrol costs, little has changed. We work, we play, we make plans, we go to bed, we wake up and do it all over again. We discreetly pop the balloons that survived the recent pirate party.
A week on from that big birthday, two boys exit the family car. The youngest dons a flash red bag bought for him in the hope it'll last several years longer than his brother's, a blue thing that could well require replacing before its owner turns seven.
The blue bag wearer is off in a flash; he's not in the mood to help his younger brother today. Not that his aid is required. Instead, George demands his dad take him all the way to Room 4.
It might be nearly two weeks past the official end of winter but snow joins in the swirl towards the school gate. Today the weather and a young boy conspire in a lesson: two steps forward and one back equals life.
The light goes on, my son, my son
The light goes on, and it'll never turn off
Dealing with those feelings
Parents face a barrage of feelings when their last child walks through those school gates.
Tara Clark, clinical psychologist and a co-director of Dunedin practice Psychology Associates, says it is important to embrace the emotional process, be it happy, sad or a mix of both.
It's OK to accept being a bit down. In fact, it's quite normal to feel that way, Mrs Clark says, adding "the more we can be upfront about our feelings, the healthier we will be".
"A good first step is to give yourself 'permission' to have those feelings. It is important to acknowledge the transition from one stage of life to another, both for the child and the parents.
"I think when your first child goes to school, there are a whole lot of stresses around the uncertainly of how a school works, how your day might need to be reorganised, whereas for the last child, it might be more of sadness surrounding the end of an era.
"There are always going to be things you will miss - and things you won't.
"It can be quite helpful to make a list of things you will and won't miss. There can also be great feelings, too, such as excitement about more independence and freedom.
"For some parents there might be very little loss; they might be excited and feeling positive.
"For others, it might be quite significant, particularly if they had their own issues at school. It might be quite appropriate for someone to feel quite sad for several days or weeks, but if you are still feeling like that months later you probably should be talking to a professional."
A common response is "separation anxiety", when a parent or caregiver feels guilty about leaving a child at school. And that anxiety can be amplified if a parent has a child with particular vulnerabilities.
"They might have social difficulties, be a bit shy, have a learning or physical difficulty. There are different issues for every family.
"Find somebody who you think will listen, even if it's just over a cup of coffee with a friend."
Mrs Clark says one strategy to help cope with the change is to develop a relationship with someone within the school.
"New entrant teachers are really good at knowing all about what those transitions mean for families."
Glenis Anderson, a new entrant teacher at The Terrace School, Alexandra, for the past 15 years, agrees.
"One concern I've noted is the sense of loss when mum and/or dad have been closely involved with a child's preschool activities. Suddenly, that connection is gone.
"I think there used to be a perception - I hope it's no longer there - that any connection stops when a child starts school. I'd like to make it clear that parents are welcome to come into my classroom to express their anxieties," Mrs Anderson says.
"I have had parents come and ask if they can help with reading or writing or something else.
"There are a lot of parents who can't be involved in school and there are some who can be. I think we need to make it clear that we are open to them coming.
"If parents or caregivers are anxious or not happy, then often that will come across in the child. So it is really important to address."
