Vicky Ewan: A sign of getting old - moving from cubs to scouts and big school

We are going through a period of transition in the family at the moment; jobs, education, clubs, hobbies - all are under scrutiny, subject to the winds of change, and causing, in various degrees, excitement, anxiety, and hope.
None of us has been more implicated in this flurry of fluctuation than the youngest: his little world is being catapaulted into a new solar system, with challenges everywhere all at once.
His time at Cubs is drawing to a close, now that he has attained the grand old age of ten (and a half), a development that signifies the end of a happy two years of Tuesday evening gatherings filled with friendship and fun.
I recently received a letter via email that my son had primed me to expect, comprising an invitation to move up the ranks in this organisation and join the Scouts.
The letter outlined a period of adjustment that can be accommodated for three or four weeks, when the youngster in question is at liberty to attend Scouts meets alongside their regular Cubs sessions.
My son had received an explanation of this proposal a few weeks ago, and had discussed the prospect with those peers eligible to make the move themselves; they had unanimously agreed to give it a try together, clinging to the age-old 'safety in numbers' philosophy.
However, as the date of the first meeting loomed large on the horizon, my son grew increasingly nervous, convinced that he would be the only Cub to turn up, and fearful that he would feel impossibly self-conscious.
We did our best to reassure him, and he agreed to go along - with trepidation dogging his steps. His relief when he caught a glimpse of one of his friends as he approached the venue was palpable, and, despite a wobbly start, he enjoyed that first session and the subsequent one the following week.
It seems fairly certain that he will move up in a couple of weeks' time; all that remains now is for us to acquire the new uniform, and transfer his myriad badges from his Cubs shirt to the requisite campfire blanket (I am not a natural seamstress, and do not anticipate this task with joy).
My son's joining the Scouts wasn't initially assured these past two weeks; in fact, I had responded to the original email with an apology that he wouldn't manage the first couple of sessions, which were subject to an earlier start than will be habitual due to them being the final two meetings at the summer base; the start time overlapped with his weekly swimming lessons.
However, a couple of hours after the Scouts email winged its way through the ether, my son unexpectedly graduated from his swimming class, leaving us free to select a different slot - which task we eagerly undertook, duly avoiding any clash with Scouts.
He was thrilled to be advancing at the pool, and the timing could have been no better. He has made good progress in the water over the past few months, able now to swim short distances unassisted by any buoyancy aid - and is thankfully no longer the tallest in his group by a wide mile. I suspect he may still be the eldest, though, as he has reached another rite of passage in his life - applying for secondary school placement for next year.
This undertaking was introduced to us via a letter from the local education authority some time ago, correspondence that provided advance information regarding the date the process would be initiated and the deadline for submission of applications. My son had been aware of the contents of that missive and was awaiting the prescribed date with an endearing excitement; I couldn't recall his siblings displaying such enthusiasm when their time had rolled around.
My son and I had attended an Open Day at the sole establishment to which we were applying - the same one his three sisters and brother (not to mention his uncle and mother) had attended in their youth - before the summer holidays, and the visit cast the school in a different light to the one to which my son had so far been exposed through his tag-along visits to parents evenings, audience appearances at school shows, and attendance at award ceremonies.
For the first time, as he peeked into classrooms and observed teachers at work, spoke to catering staff (and sampled some of the delicious cookies for which they were famed), and heard stories from past students, it was possible for my youngest to imagine himself there, walking the hallowed hallways, cavorting in the playgrounds, and participating in the many extra-curricular activities on offer.
He was keen to assist when I formally completed and submitted his application, and has asked more than once when we can expect news of a decision - not till spring next year. So much change is on the horizon for our dear boy once he leaves his happy little primary school, but I trust that the skills he is acquiring along the way, through his present school and through his clubs and hobbies, will furnish him with the equipment he needs to face the challenge head on. Maybe he will even learn to sew on his own badges.