My daughter has started school for the first time – and I’m already mourning the end of her childhood

That this chunk of life is now drawing to a close feels melancholic in a way I wasn’t expecting. The joy of being a parent is a three-way, time-split agony

I’d ask where the time went but, if I’m honest, I know where it’s gone. On washing, mainly (AFP via Getty Images)

My eldest started school on Monday and, as per cliche, I am astonished that someone born – what? – last week? – is suddenly a proper, fully-fledged child.

I’d ask where the time went but, if I’m honest, I know where it’s gone. On washing, mainly.

Four-and-a-half years in, I remain at a loss as to how a person so small – and now her two-year-old sister too – can get through so many clothes. I once thought it ridiculous that Anne Hathaway changed outfits eight times while hosting the Oscars. Now, I understand: she must have had a mud kitchen and water table back-stage.

Her last day at nursery – my eldest; not Anne Hathaway – was Friday and we celebrated, me and her, by going for a pint and a Fruit Shoot in the pub at the end of our road.

We sat at the high table because, as she decreed, from there, I could see the football (it was cricket) and she was in grabbing distance of the free crayons and puzzle sheets. We did a spot-the-difference together and I explained – unsuccessfully, I feel – what a “six” was. We had a long discussion about ice cream flavours. When she asked what pistachio tasted like, I realised I was 40 years old and could offer only one honest answer: I don’t know.

Then, on a whim, we went and got fish and chips for tea.

When we got home, the youngest was waiting at the window for us. This may be a girl who still struggles to navigate her way round a full night’s sleep but, unambiguously, she knows a plate of food when she sees one. By the time I’d washed my hand, they were both – and I mean this literally – elbow deep in batter and mushy peas. It was another Anne Hathaway moment. What a day, I thought. What a day.

Then – but of course – within the hour, they’d both had a melt down because they weren’t allowed chocolate for dessert. I mean come on. Chocolate post 6pm? It’s the last day of nursery, kid, not the last days of Rome.

Either way, times like these make me vaguely think that having toddlers is a bit like being permanently at a festival – and I don’t just mean how liberal amounts of booze will help you get through both.

It’s the unpredictability and the colour, the surreal conversations, the noise and shouting, the laughter and the tears (sometimes theirs, often mine), and, aye, the mud. It is the turning of corners to be always greeted by something new.

As a younger man, I once walked through a wood in Wales to find The Wedding Present doing a set at Festival Number Six (keep up – that was a good thing). The equivalent, these days, is walking downstairs to find the two larks have – equally unannounced – set up a café on the dining room table. “It’s 6am,” I yawn. Ten minutes later, I have been co-opted as a customer and am being served a (real) banana and a (toy) cup of tea.

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What a way to start a day, I think. Mainly, I think it positively. That this chunk of life is now drawing to a close feels melancholic in a way I wasn’t expecting. I’ve also come to the conclusion that the joy of being a parent is also a three-way, time-split agony.

One: I’m already wishing I could go back and do the earliest years all over again. But two: I like them just as they are right now and sort of never want them to change. But but three: I am entirely inpatient for all the moments ahead and to see them grow up. Sometimes it feels like I cannot wait for them to be older, just so I can tell them how much fun they were when they were younger.

Over Fruit Shoots, I imagine buying them their first proper drinks. Over their first proper drinks, I know I’ll long to buy them Fruit Shoots once more.

As I put yet another wash on, I ponder all this. I make a decision to try pistachio ice cream.