I officially retire from my primary school today. No more cúntus miosúils. No more staff meetings. No more standing in the yard first thing in the morning, welcoming the children in.That was probably the best part of the day.The chats, the banter. All those comments about how brilliant that homemade Viking warship really was, oars all primed to go. And it really was!Or those queries about what it was they were going to make with the three bags of cereal boxes they were somehow managing to balance with their schoolbag still in tow. And on top of that, there was even the occasional sighting of the geese flying in a V-formation overhead.I’ve had a good run.I’ve worked in the classroom and out of the classroom, and on secondment. And for the past few months, I’ve smiled and nodded while being exposed to 753 earnest, well-meaning versions of: “but what are you going to do?” from school and non-school people alike. Thinking about it now, that’s possibly 754.It’s the ultimate cliche, but it’s the kids I’ll miss the most, and their ability to say it as it is.[ Compulsory retirement for teachers at 65 belongs in dark agesOpens in new window ]I was minding the gate one morning when a child stopped in front of me while I was doing my “Good Mornings”, and solemnly announced that the dog had just pooed in the car. I looked over to witness her Dad bent over in the back seat, newspaper in hand. Really, there is no retort for that, and in equally solemn fashion I offered my commiserations.And then there was the time I somehow missed a missive to mind a class while a substitute teacher was being sourced. It came to my attention as I happened to be in the office when some girls appeared and requested that a grown-up come to the classroom as, “the boys were making a human pyramid”. It’s difficult to think of any other statement that could so effectively elicit a bolt down the corridor.Recently, I was doing that chat about upcoming holidays to a young girl. She informed me that her family were going to Silver Strand. I wasn’t exactly sure where that was, but thought it might be in Wexford, and duly inquired whether it was. The girl looked at me with a mixture of pity and disdain. “No,” she replied, “it’s in Ireland.” And, of course, she was right.[ Extra €80m needed as number of projected teacher retirements doubleOpens in new window ]Teaching is a young person’s gig. You begin to realise that once you hit your late 50s. Well, that’s when it kicked in for me. The bending, the kneeling, the constantly being “on”. Young children have endless amounts of energy, but, in some kind of perverse joke of nature, it’s not enough for them. They need to siphon every ounce from the adults around them – and they do so very successfully.As I soared skywards, time stood still, and it clearly registered in my consciousness that this was not a good idea and that my cheering, you-can-do-this colleague was at least half my ageBeing around these bouncing engines of activity can also cloud your judgment. I was on the sixth class tour to a water park last year, and for some reason, decided to partake of that obstacle course out in the water. I donned a life-jacket and helmet and doggy-paddled my way over there. My excuse in hindsight is that I fell prey to that educational phenomenon known as “losing your mind”.How much did I lose my mind? A younger teacher - a so much younger teacher - persuaded me to go down a slide which involved being propelled high in the air before being unceremoniously dumped into the water below.I am almost 62 years old.As I soared skywards, time stood still, and it clearly registered in my consciousness that this was not a good idea and that my cheering, you-can-do-this colleague was at least half my age. My body hit the water like one of those balls of slime that land – splat – on a wall. I got myself out of there as fast as I could, dignity no longer intact, and sat on the bus back to school trying to convince myself that the aches and pains already beginning to manifest themselves would fade in time. Happily and luckily, they did.On one of my final yard duties, a Junior Infant child approached and asked whether I was really retiring. For a moment, that “retiring” sounded like “dying”. But, in fairness, to a Junior Infant, there’s probably not much difference.I must have said something along the lines of, “yes, I think I am”, because she shot me a look of utter frustration and announced that I’d better be, as they’d spent that morning making me a card.She can rest easy now because I have. I actually have.