“I hope you’re not going to do something like this,” warns my son on his way to attend a surprise 18th party courageously arranged by his friend’s mother. That tone squelches any desire I had to do something similar.

“Never thought of it,” I shrug with a nonchalance I don’t feel.

Today, after his French exam, my son’s high schooldays are over. Soon he will be university-bound.

The maternal health nurse did say to cherish the years that would pass “in a flash”. With three children under five, nothing happened in a flash except the perpetual dishevelment that tested my sense of order.

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In the way of many first-borns, my son is polite, obedient and diligent, an example to his siblings and a test case for his parents. After not enrolling him in kindergarten, we course-corrected with the others. When he disliked an activity, everyone got pulled out. And, when he outgrew his school, the kids moved en masse.

These days, having children entails a part-time job handling emails, calls and meetings. My son’s school years stand out for the fact that we have managed to navigate them with just two phone calls.

The first inhabits family lore. When he was three his childcare teacher called to report a concern about a picture.

Instead of the obligatory rainbow, he had drawn a wonky stick figure first intact and then decapitated. Resting beside the head was a trident replete with three wobbly........

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