SUNDAY TIMES NEWS REVIEW 2 September 2007

The start of the new school year is never easy, what with all the packed lunches, book bags, PE kits, music folders and an alarming number of items of (usually unlabelled and slightly grubby) clothing needing to be carted out of the door every morning. But this year the beginning of term will be more fraught than usual.

This year, my youngest child, Charlie, starts school.

Now then, as every mother worth her stretch marks knows, this momentous event - the event which sees her unleashed from the shackles of buggies, boxes of Lego, no-spill cups and swing-pushing - is usually hailed as just about the best thing since sliced, low-fat, carb-free bread.

It means freedom ! It means no more shuffling about with a baby attached to one hip and a buggy out in front; it means being able to read more than one page of a newspaper before someone needs assistance in the toilet; it means drinking a cup of coffee before it gets cold, spat in or spilled; it means going shopping without stopping to admire every leaf, worm and discarded kebab wrapper along the way. In short it means, at long, long last, time to be alone.

But there's the problem. Much as I am craving some peace and quiet around the house after almost a decade of the constant noise and clutter of puking newborns, needy toddlers and demanding pre-schoolers, I don't know if I can handle all that 'alone' time any more. When Charlie starts school I will be sans children all day, every weekday, for the first time in ten years. Do I really look forward to that?

If I'm honest, I'm dreading it.

I had my kids young: I was 23 when our first daughter was born, and by 28 I had three kids under five, bags under my eyes to rival anything on the high street and an ability to do fifty jobs at once, none of them for me. I managed to continue working part time, but this work has always come second to my life with my children, and most of my days have revolved entirely around them.

Trundling along every week to toddler or music groups to sing Incy Wincy Spider out of tune, spending untold hours in playgrounds come rain, snow or shine, feeding the overfed ducks, reading the same books over and over and over again in the local library, drowning at home in a sea of train sets, dolls houses, playdough and sticky messes of glue and paint. This has been my life for as long as I can properly remember. And now it is all about to change.

Much as we begrudge the mind-numbing repetitiveness of looking after young children at the time (and I've done my fair share of moaning about it, believe me!) it is this daily, weekly, yearly routine and the vast, ever-changing network of friends we meet on the toddler trail that keeps us going when our children are of pre-school age. Without this structure, without the company of other exhausted, frazzled parents who are also doing their best to raise their small, smelly humans to be capable, kind, less smelly, bigger humans without so much as a 'Cheers, mate', I would have gone mad long ago.

When all of this stops I will miss the company and companionship of these friends terribly. But I will miss Charlie's company more. I will miss being able to have a huge, warm, squashy hug with my little boy whenever I want one. I will miss when he runs up to me and plants a jammy kiss on my cheek. I will miss holding his beautiful little hand as I walk down the street; I will miss the lunches we eat together, the ice creams we share, the times we collapse in a heap of giggles, our hopeless games of football and the burnt flapjacks we make. I will even miss when he shouts at me to 'Mummy,come and wipe!'

But most of all, I will miss all the fun we have together.

I will take Charlie to the school gate on Monday, proud as can be with his new (labelled) school T-shirt, new book bag and new look of grown-up purpose, prize his hot, clammy hand from mine, give him a kiss he'd suddenly rather not have and watch him walk away into a new chapter of his life which doesn't require me, his Mummy, to be there with him. I know he'll come back beaming at the end of every day just like his older sisters have done for years, but somehow this last goodbye feels more gut-wrenching and terminal than either of the previous ones, because this time I will walk home by myself.

Saying goodbye to my little one this time means saying goodbye to one of the happiest, most exhilarating, daunting, challenging, exhausting periods of my life. Having wished for this moment for years, I suddenly feel an overwhelming sense of sadness - almost of mourning - about leaving these early years behind, and as I watch him gradually turn into someone I don't know so well any more, I will turn to my memories of these happy times with my children at home with me, for comfort. It's been a huge challenge, but an even greater privilege.

So off you go now, Charlie. Enjoy every minute, eat all your lunch - even the healthy bits - be good, wash your hands after you've been to the loo, don't flick paper across the classroom too often and, most importantly, never, ever stop having fun.

Now, where's that newspaper.