I may have actually been crying loudly as I stood amongst the lunchboxes and drink bottles and people were watching.

You see, this is my last first day of school. My baby is heading into Year 12 and in a few short terms my school days will be over.

All around me were children and their parents, excited to find things on the magical back to school list, a glue stick, some exercise books, a pencil case, some coloured pencils. It's like a little treasure hunt. And I will never get to experience it again.

It seems like only yesterday that he followed his sister off to primary school. He was keen to go. (If only some of that keenness was in existence over the past couple of years.)

He knew a few of the big kids. I'd taken him in with me when I helped in class. Indeed, there was a while there where it was discouraged when we went in to help with gross motor skills because he was putting kids two years his elder to shame such was his ability to toss a ball or walk across a balance beam.

So much is written about how to ready your child, ready yourself for the first day of school: take a tour, meet the teachers, get organised early, talk about what will happen, familiarise them with the concept of a lunchbox, read books about starting school, stay calm at drop off so they don't pick up on your own anxiety, there's a wealth of advice out there. The ACT Education Department has several guides to help families with the transition, from what might happen on the first day to a list of helpful contacts.

But where are all the resources for those of us at the other end of the journey? Of course, there aren't any. Surely we should all know what we're doing? Of course we do. But wouldn't it be nice if someone acknowledged this landmark day as well?

As your children grow up, there are so many lasts that slip by without any acknowledgement at all. The last time they crawl into bed with you for a cuddle, the last time they want help lacing shoes or doing up jackets, the last time they'll play with Lego. We should mark them all, if only we knew that's what was happening.

For the most part I loved their school years. I was one of those mothers who went hard early. I helped with reading, in the canteen, I coached sports teams, timed sprints and swimming races at carnivals, manned cake stalls and barbecues. Fourteen-odd years on, I'm still doing it. In many ways the school community became my community. I always thought if a teacher saw you taking some interest in not only what they were doing in class but what the school was doing on a broader level they would take more interest in your child. I think I was right.

My children have been blessed by some wonderful teachers of the years. And that started in childcare. I remember one occasion when the boy, by then a big, sweaty teenager, ran into a former carer from daycare days and they recognised each other instantly. They've both had teachers who tested them and pushed them to be their best, been there when they've fallen well short. A big thank you to everyone who has taught my children. You have been an integral part of their lives and of mine.

On the first day of school on Tuesday he'll most likely drive himself to school. There'll be no first day road trip where he might chat instead of blast his music. I should be grateful that on the rare occasion I get to drive him to school now, he still leans over in the front and gives me a kiss goodbye. I might have to remind him to shave off the holiday beard. Remind him to polish his shoes one last time. I'm still packing his lunch box. I know he's perfectly capable (I think) but I still do it.

Over the years I've probably packed close to 5000 lunchboxes for my children and each one has been filled with love. I will miss doing it.

So once I'd dried my eyes at Officeworks I picked up two things for him. A new lunchbox and a pencil case covered in Kombi vans and surfboards.

He was mortified but he understood. Not only is it his last first day, it's mine too.