This weekend, thousands of parents will be loading their cars full of new pans, duvet covers, the odd mini-fridge and enough fairy lights to illuminate the skies for a year.

University move-in day!

Tense teenagers and anxious parents – never a good combination – will try to make small talk in the car. Each trying to find a place in this brave new world, parents shout reminders to label leftovers and remember to call your gran, while teens – headphones in – silently ponder their new life.  

All my kids went to Uni. We’re not posh. We live in a council house, had ordinary jobs. Denied education as a working-class kid in the 80s – ‘work in the Co-Op till you have a baby,’ was the sage advice of my school, I wanted my kids to always know that University was something they could do. It wasn’t always easy. School attitudes to estate kids have not always moved on.  

It’s not that going to university is better than going to work, or better than working in the Co-Op; if the lockdowns taught us anything, it’s that we rely on working-class labour. University is just a different way to see the world. A way for my kids to move to a new place. Yes, I worried about the debt. And about them being safe. But I needed them to know it was their choice to go, their right, never mind where they came from.

On the car journey, transporting them to their new life, a young adult sits in the back seat, but in the rear-view mirror, I keep catching sight of my little kid.

Like a snow globe, shaken up, one minute I see them 5 years old, their first day at school. Then they’re 8, hiding behind a cushion from something scary on TV, and then that time they came off their bike and we sat in A & E for hours. After-school rows and singing Christmas songs until our voices were hoarse. All of their life flashing before my eyes. And then this beautiful young adult sat in their place.

My kids wanted me to unload their stuff on the side of the road and leave them to it, but I battled through their protestations and lugged boxes up the stairs.

‘Don’t talk to anyone,’ each of them hissed. ‘Don’t be weird! Don’t make a fuss.’

I was reduced to silent eye contact with other parents, each of us with the same instructions, a small knowing nod. Of course, there are always exceptions. The dad laughing too loud, slapping his son on the back and joking like he’s one of the lads. The mum offering to take all the girls out for a boozy brunch. Maybe don’t.

Try not to linger. Try not to hold them too tight, squeezing the breath from them as you stretch out goodbyes that you long to last forever.

The journey home is hard.

Plan yourself a little treat. Pull over once they’re out of sight and have a little cry. It’s ok to miss them. It’s ok to phone them that night, see how they are settling in, are they making friends, did they remember to brush their teeth?  Then maybe let them be.

Your house will feel quiet, even if you’ve more kids at home. Teenagers take up so much space. Maybe don’t turn their bedroom into a sewing room/gym/reading nook that first week, but definitely enjoy the peace

They’ll be back at Christmas with coloured hair, talking in a weird accent, with a bag full of washing and opinions, begging for a home-cooked meal.

Most importantly, remember this is your adventure too.

Time to become the star of your own life.

Your work here is nearly done.