Seán Moncrieff: As a father, you have to let go of your expectations

In the end, my obsessional refreshing the Apartments To Let page on Daft didn’t make any difference at all. After the best part of six months searching, Daughter Number One and the Boyfriend got a place through the lo-tech method of knowing someone who knew someone who was just about to vacate.

It was simple, dumb luck, though if my mother was still alive, she’d call it a miracle and immediately take the credit based on the amount of novenas she’d put in.

Daughter Number One and the Boyfriend were so excited, they moved in as soon as they got the keys. They lived on takeaways until I could transport all their stuff. They were child-like in their delight – though to my much older eyes, they still are children.

One of the curious sensations of having kids is that time is constantly mixed up. I see them as they are now, as young adults, but I also see them as babies or toddlers or 10-year-olds. All the concerns and love from those periods are mixed up in a sort of temporal washing machine; everything still existing at the same time. It’s why parents will always worry, no matter what age their children are.

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I have said to the kids – and I’ve only been half-joking – that it would be easier (for me) to have a Worry Rota, where they have to take turns at having problems. They’ve never managed it.

For the moment, Daughter Number One is sorted, but the others all have issues, or at least, potential issues that I can fret about in advance. Daughter Number Four has a best friend. They go for playdates and sleepovers. They co-ordinate their outfits and adore each other. Yet, from experience, I know that those friendships tend not to last; and when they do break down, the effect on a young child can be devastating.

Daughter Number Two has just finished her degree, and for the last year or so had been set upon doing a Masters. Yet when the time came, she went into a funk about the whole thing, unable to make any decision. Future plans are now on hold. Daughter Number Three – wildly creative, evilly funny and stunningly beautiful – has had profound struggles that have lasted for half her life.

In a few months’ time, Son Number One will return from Colombia and he too will have to face the question of what he’s going to do next.

Over the years, my children have taught me a few things. One is that, as a parent, you have to let go of your expectations. The school-college-job model I grew up with is in many cases meaningless to their generation and, as a result, my experience and any flimsy wisdom I may have picked up along the way isn’t much use to them.

Another is that there is no hierarchy to distress: the upset experienced by a six-year-old is every bit as serious as that endured by a 26-year-old. Pain is pain. It isn’t softened by age or context.

But the most surprising and often frustrating lesson is the realisation of just how little you can do. Obviously, there are things you shouldn’t do. Don’t send them to school with cigarettes, or serve crisps for breakfast. But being a parent isn’t like baking: you can’t follow the instructions on the packet to make them turn out the way you’d like.

I can provide money or a bed or an ear. But I can’t fight off their demons or make decisions for them or save them from losing a friend. I’d like to describe it as being a trainer, shouting instructions from the sidelines, but I’d be flattering myself. They wouldn’t listen to me anyway. Nor should they. In truth, I’m a heavily-invested spectator, watching and listening and hoping for the best. And having some faith in them. I won’t stop doing that.