The first day procedure - as it is called - is that parents and children turn up in the school play ground and wander around looking for class lists which indicate which class their offspring will be in for the coming year. Last year I cried. I couldn't help it. My baby was moving to the big school from her lovely Montessori pre-school with two of her mates, and neither mate was in her class. So I wept. As discretely as I could. I'm a very emotional person by the way.
What a difference a year makes. Said child had the most amazing year which boosted her confidence into the stratosphere beyond the wildest dreams of a parent raised as an Irish Catholic in the seventies. My mother used to refer to confident children as being 'boisterous' - in a bad way - so I came from the mentality where anyone confident would elicit the comment: who does she think she is?
But tomorrow I'm not anticipating any tears although the absence of both daughters' best friends - one of five years standing, the other made in her new class in the past year - will no doubt have some effect. I'll wear waterproof mascara just in case. And take along a hanky. And my sunglasses. I'm sure I'll be fine.
Of course, as of tomorrow, I have no excuse for not getting on and finishing da novel. Now that, on the other hand, is something which is guaranteed to reduce me to tears. Of joy or sadness, I cannot yet foretell.