Jonny McCambridge: ​Finding it hard to come to terms with the end of school run routine

There are some variations to the routine. On days when I am busy at work, or away from the village, my son will go to an afterschool club for a couple of hours until my wife or I are able to pick him up. On the rare occasion when we are both stuck at engagements and can’t get back in time, other family members are drafted in to help with the pick-up.

Throughout the years, and over the many variations, there has been one constant. Whenever I see my son for the first time after school, I will always enquire as to how his day was. He will always shrug his shoulders and say he doesn’t know. That’s how it goes.

One of the most challenging aspects of parenting is knowing how to deal with change, being able to adapt appropriately. It may be clear to the outsider that picking up a three-year-old nursery school pupil is not the same as a P7 boy on the cusp of going to big school, but when you are doing it every day, you tend to stick to the routine. Change often happens so gradually that you can’t quite grasp when the situation altered from your previous understanding. When I look in the mirror these days, I sometimes wonder how I failed to notice the moment when my hair began to turn white, I just have to accept it is happening.

It has been clear for some time that the current school run arrangement had run its course. My son has been making the point for more than a year that many of his fellow pupils are allowed to walk home, and so should he. He has been desperate for the increased state of independence.

And yet, inexplicably, we have resisted. A series of excuses have been created to delay the natural progression. We live about a mile from the primary school and argued it was too far to walk; we thought his schoolbag might be too heavy for the trek; we feared the harsh winter weather and the potential for ice on the footpaths and put off making a decision until spring was closer. There are roads to be crossed on the route home - would he really have the responsibility to do that safely without holding onto daddy’s hand?

Of course, the protestations from my son continued, and the parental arguments became weaker. In the end it was clear that my position was less to do with protecting my child, and more to do with protecting myself and my unwillingness to accept he is growing up. In a few months he will be starting a secondary school which will be further away from home and will present new logistical challenges. The logic for allowing him to walk home now was clearly irresistible.

And so, rather grudgingly, we discussed a new plan. My wife took our boy on a couple of trial walks, to familiarise himself with the route and show him the best points to cross the roads. A new watch was purchased, which could be placed in his schoolbag to show his location. The afterschool club and creche, which has been providing care for my son since his birth, was notified that an era had ended.

For the first few days we struck a middle course. I told my son that I would pick him up half-way. He left school on his own and walked out of the village and I met him with the car on the road. It worked well. There was a strange stirring of emotions as I saw him coming down the hill, schoolbag on back and eyes darting left and right as he crossed the road. There was the familiar swelling of pride, but also a little pinprick of something sharper, a tiny pang of regret over something lost.

Later in the week I had to go to Limavady. It was clear that I would not be home in time for the school pick-up. My son was bursting to walk the full distance home, having already become impatient at my interim arrangement of picking him up halfway. Before I left the house that morning, I told my son to message me the moment he got home, and he rolled his eyes as I unnecessarily showed him yet again how to use his new key.

I went to my work, although I found it difficult to focus on the tasks. As I moved around, my attention kept being drawn to the little car clock as it neared the end of the school day, the moment when he would be walking out of the playground, crossing the road, nearing home, retrieving the shiny new key from his schoolbag. My mind became clouded with potential complications, things which could go wrong.

I was packing my gear into the car boot when my phone pinged with a message. I grabbed it.

‘Home safe and sound daddy. Stop worrying!’

I set off on the drive home, becoming frustrated by the heavy traffic around Belfast. It was later than I had hoped when I pulled into our driveway.

I went to the front door, but it was locked. I knocked and saw my son through the frosted glass, fumbling with his new key. I had a temporary loss of composure. He opened the door. Our eyes met and he smiled shyly. Against my instincts, I felt it was better to normalise the moment, not to build it up too much.

‘How was your day son?’

He shrugged his shoulders.

‘I dunno.’