When we first decided to move to Darwin, Milo was not pleased. In fact, he gave me a sharp punch to the stomach and told us we should have given him hot chips for breakfast before sharing such news. He was right.

Of course, Milo moved on quickly; his fiendish genius allowing him to pivot seamlessly from misery to opportunity; he would acquiesce to new town, new school, new friends, but I would need to dress up as an inflatable flamingo named Kevin to drop them at school each morning for the first week. Deal.

The details have been muddied by history and/ or careful subterfuge, but at some point every day of that first week became the first week of each term, and then the last week of the year was added as well. And then Kevin the Flamingo became Bob the Prawn and then Bob the Prawn became Glitterbutt the Unicorn, and now almost three years later our cupboard is full of punctured, deflated looking, but very well used adult-sized inflatable creatures.

Oft have we wondered how long this might continue. We check in with the boys at the beginning of each term; okay, so you still happy for your dad to dress up like a buffoon and walk with you to school? yup? yup? Two yups. Alright, let’s go! Until quite recently, Milo has in fact continued to maintain that I would be dressed in a blow up crab or something to drive him to his first day of his first job at the AI factory.

But… very recently, I regret to report, we crossed over some invisible childhood barrier that I fear cannot be recrossed. Like one of those carpark security mechanisms with the angry looking teeth that shred your tyres if you mistake an egress for an ingress.

On the first day of Glitterbutt’s fourth week of action; “Dad, it’s ok if Monty still wants you to dress up as the unicorn, but I don’t really want it anymore. I used to think it was funny but now I think it’s a bit weird. Actually, would you mind not walking past my classroom? I think people are starting to judge me”.

Actually, he handled this heartbreaking moment for me with complete grace. He asked politely, acknowledged Monty’s feelings, made his case quietly, respectfully and succinctly, agreed we’d had some good times in the past, and then strode off towards his classroom and his adult life… leaving me standing in the carpark in the drizzle, dressed as an inflatable, bedazzled unicorn, with a misshapen, pointy pink hat perched on my head, shoulders slumped forward, eyes moistening, now with only one child prepared to hold my hand in public.

So there you have it; if you’ve ever wondered when ‘my parents are awesome’ transitions to ‘my parents are embarrassing losers’ (as a good friend of mine so eloquently put it), the answer is year 5, term 4. I actually think we had a pretty good run.

Monty, I think sensing the moment was somewhat emotional for me, was content to walk in silence for quite some time, hand in hand. Well, he walked, I waddled.

But right before we arrived at his classroom, he took his chance; turning his face up towards mine with a smile “hey dad, if Milo doesn’t want to vote on next year’s costume, can we get the inflatable avocado?”

I grinned back. Of course we can Monty, of course we can.

RIP GB