The day I lost my little girl to a horde of leggy teens

• Thought of my 11-year-old making her own way home from senior school makes me feel physically sick
• She's grown up faster than I anticipated
• It's only a matter of time before she persuades me

By Lorraine Candy

PUBLISHED: 16:28 EST, 11 September 2013 | UPDATED: 16:28 EST, 11 September 2013

Outside the gates of my eldest's new senior school there are only a handful of parents waiting on the first day of the new term. This confuses me. 

Am I early for pick-up? Have I come to school after the holidays at the wrong time? (It's happened before.) 

I'm used to an army of harassed looking mums and dads jostling for first contact with their little ones, but all I see is a small cluster of middle-aged people staring at their feet.

Growing up: But Lorraine isn't ready for her daughter to walk to and from school without her (posed by models)

Then it dawns on me why no one is here. And when I realise what's going on it feels like a bucket of cold water has been poured over my head. Parents don't pick up children at senior school, do they? They make their own way home. And the thought of my 11-year-old doing this makes me feel physically sick.

The image of her crossing the busy four-lane road outside her school gives me a brittle heartache. I subconsciously clench my fists as I contemplate how, one day, she'll face the urban temptations and terrors of inner London after school without me.

Anything could happen, and in my head it already has. I can match your horrific imaginary outcome and top it: I am queen of the Top Trumps for dreadful things that could possibly occur when you're not stood beside your children or squeezing them breathless with love. 

Never utter the phrase 'What's the worst that can happen?' to me because you won't want to hear the answer my mind has prepared. Remember, I am the woman who made my husband nail all our furniture to the wall in case anything fell on the toddlers.

All around her were tall, lithe-limbed teenagers: Lorraine is still getting used to her daughter being at secondary school (posed by models)

I also made him close every toilet lid in the house when we arrived home with our newborn in case I tripped and dropped her down the loo (well, she was quite tiny). I don't share these morbid (crazy) thoughts with my children. Quite the opposite. 

Because of my mad, irrational fear of imminent disaster, I've tried to prepare them to be as fearless as possible.

They kamikaze down stairs in cardboard boxes, ride bikes like Evel Knievel on acid and know no boundaries when it comes to leaping off furniture with toy swords. And I could charge for tickets to watch the four siblings brawling in our lounge (if you want my advice, place your bets on the two-year-old to win - she fights dirty).

If they do this now I figure they'll be able to cope with anything life hurls at them when they really need to be independent. But it's hard work, and facing my fears on a daily basis gnaws away at me.

Sometimes witnessing their enthusiastic approach to stretching physical boundaries turns me into a jelly-legged mess (especially around water). Even so, it's a shock to discover I simply don't know if I can ever let my 11-year-old daughter come home from school alone. 

It doesn't make sense after all the prep we've done, does it? She's trustworthy and mature (not sure anyone would say this about me) and old enough to make this journey, but I have already said no.

She's grown up faster than I anticipated and I'm not ready to let go of my baby. 

It's only a matter of time before she persuades me, I know, but my resolve hardened when she did eventually come out of school on the first day of term.

She was swept out to me on a wave of giants. All around her were tall, lithe-limbed teenagers. Girls with their hair down and their skirts a good few inches up. After being among the big girls at junior school she was suddenly among the little girls of senior school. 

I lurched past the hordes to cuddle her, but the look of fear in her eyes stopped me in my tracks. The little girl who used to let me blow bubbles on her tummy was finally gone. 

Like the melancholy sadness at the end of summer, this rite of passage feels unbearably poignant. I miss that little girl so much and I don't feel we ever had a chance to say goodbye.

Lorraine Candy is editor-in-chief of Elle