It's a funny thing this starting school business...

‘Rang a Dó has nits.” Ever since my sister told me about the sign on a door in her child’s primary school, I haven’t been able to get it out of my head, appropriately enough. Apparently, to enter the world of primary school parenthood is to enter a world of parasitic insects, odd-smelling shampoos and those funny little fine-toothed combs. I know there’s a bit more to it than that but whenever I’m getting emotional about my daughters starting primary school I think: “Rang a Dó has nits.” Snaps me out of it every time.

Everybody and their grandmother said these years would fly in, but you never actually believed them. And then suddenly you’re looking at a book list for junior infants and wondering if covering school books is still a thing. Everybody and their grandmother: well done, you were right. Those years flew in like a life-enhancing hurricane. In my head I might still be filling ice-cube trays with pureed sweet potato and blowing raspberries at my daughters to make them laugh. But in the real world they are four years old and the list says I’m supposed to get “5 foolscap document folders (cardboard)” to put in their backpacks. Are they starting school or starting a business? And what are Crayola Twistables when they’re at home?

It’s only natural that there’s been some anxiety, a few tearful heart to hearts, the occasional tantrum and gentle resistance to this brand new beginning - but that’s enough about their parents. Our daughters are grand about it all. They have already negotiated the purchase of a longed-for toy on the back of their impending first day at school, a place that’s practically on our doorstep. They walk past it every day and point out “big school” and speculate about the kinds of games they’ll be playing in the yard. Another phase of their life is about to start.

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Priya wears a leopard-print hoodie, €44.95, from MiraMira, Sandymount, Dublin 4

“Everything changes,” they remind me, echoing the mantra I’ve been brainwashing them with since the sweet-potato days.

They’ve already met their teacher, Miss W, and they think she looks like “a kind lady”. They are running towards this new beginning at full throttle, with the same enthusiasm they greet the sudden appearance of the ice-cream van in the park.

I’m a bit slower in my approach. If I think about it too much I get emotional, and I wasn’t expecting that. I distract myself by researching schoolbags. There’s a particular brand of backpack veteran parents of school children recommend. I like the idea that if I make the right purchase it will see them through to sixth class.

They don’t have a uniform where they are going, so I’m also researching hard-wearing tracksuit-type clothing. I’m thinking of sage advice to give them but can only think of things like, “Don’t eat your lunch before lunchtime,” and, “Don’t get nits.” I’ve promised myself I’ll get dressed to take them on the one-minute walk to school but I know some coat-over-pyjama days are inevitable. I’m sure they’ll understand.

I wonder, when they're older, will they even remember their first day at school? I remember mine, but only because I had a painful boil on my bottom and I had to ask lovely Miss Price for a cushion to put on my chair. She went on to become the principal of that school, a case of the cream rising to the top. She does a brilliant A Frog Went A Courtin' on her guitar. I wonder if Miss W knows that tune.

It's a funny thing, this starting school business. Most of you wants to let them fly, and then another tiny part of you wants to keep them in your kitchen making fairy cakes and dissecting the plot of Annie – "But why did her Mum and Dad not want her when she was so cute?" – forever. But you can't. At least not without getting into trouble with the Department of Education.

So you cheer yourself up with “Rang a Dó has nits”, buy five document folders (cardboard) and Crayola Twistables (twistable crayons, obv) and hope with all your heart that Miss W is as kind as she looks.