I can never understand parents who bemoan the start of the school year and complain about early mornings and preparing packed lunches. I just love September. The chaos of the summer is finally over; order and routine are established. Bliss! We had a very emotional summer. It started in May with Darragh's graduation. It was a brilliant affair - all those awful parent/teacher meetings faded into the background and teachers, pupils and parents were able to socialise on an equal footing. I found myself getting weepy and had to talk myself into sense.

Then, in June, Aoife left primary to embark on the secondary ladder. Red-eyed and miserable, she told me she couldn't bear to leave her primary school and would never, never be happy anywhere else. July means foreign students. There is a collective groan as I start moving beds around and get the house into a bit of order. "The money is towards your upkeep," I preach, and then I demand co-operation. But this year the co-operation was quite forthcoming: Silvia, 18, from Italy, arrived, and she was lithe and lovely and the teenage boys were very accommodating. After a few days I noticed her food was untouched, but there was an onslaught on yoghurt, juice, anything liquid. She had initially been quite bouncy, but was now quiet and withdrawn. My imagination was doing overtime: "She's pregnant, and you two will be blamed," I cried disconsolately. Then all was revealed: she had had her tongue pierced and it had gone septic. Also in July we got a letter from Darragh's school, addressed in a style I had come to recognise. Oh God, I thought, how can he get a letter of reprimand when he has left the school? But yes, he had - he had left his Leaving Cert exams before the allotted time; the headmaster was telling us so we would not be too disappointed with his results and not look for a re-check. That man was always a good psychologist.

Most traumatic of all was buying Aoife's school uniform for secondary. There is nothing worse than a strident little 12-year-old. A beautiful robust winter anorak was produced and she paled. "No, no, I couldn't wear that," she whimpered. Arms akimbo, we stood facing each other. It was purchased, but somehow I fear the wearing of the anorak has the makings of another Parent's Diary. And then came the time to organise the textbooks. I dug out Darragh's Leaving Cert collection and diligently went through them the books with liquid Tipp-Ex erasing his unintelligible notes. Two years ago they had come to around £200, I recalled. With Scrooge-like methodology I estimated they should fetch £50 from the second-hand shop. "£10, I'm afraid," the nice girl told me. "Revised editions have been brought out and none of those titles appears on any new school book lists." Fuming, I handed over another colossal amount for the next scholar.

Then it was waiting for the exam results. The partying seemed to start once the exams were finished and continued until - well, it is still continuing. And I don't think he really should be partying. But here I go whingeing again. Oh God, aren't I glad September is upon us.