I held my little four-year-old boy’s hand tightly last week, as we walked through the bright red doors of the school and into the brick administration building.
He was so excited to be going to prep experience day. He told me we had to hurry up that morning so that we were not late for ‘big school practice day’.
As we stepped into the open quadrangle he stopped dead and stared jaw open from under his bucket hat at the huge space before him and the ‘big’ children playing in front of him.
That is when it hit both of us – the realisation this was our life now. He was leaving me.
For four years I have been in constant internal turmoil about how much I should work. Should it be three days or four? Or should it be four days over five days or four full-length days? Or three shorter days over four days?
I now realise all of this debate was possible because I had the luxury of being able to keep this wonderful little human being at home with me whenever I felt like it. From 2014 that luxury is over forever.
On the 28th of January at four years and eight months of age my little fella will join the education system five days a week and do so for the next 13 years of our lives.
My choice of when and how much I should work so that I can spend time with him has been eliminated. Almost irrelevant.
I am more gutted by this than I expected, after all I did choose to work throughout the four years.