My family is approaching a significant milestone. It’s not a child’s first step or word – we ticked those off a while back. Rather, it’s saying goodbye to our pram.

It’s time. Actually, it’s time plus 18 to 24 months as my youngest daughter is now five and starts school in a few months. I’ve been preparing her for the fact she’ll have to use an alternate mode of transport to get there: her legs.

While she can – and does – run, skip, scoot and walk (often backwards), after a hard day on the crayons at kinder she likes to relax in the pram and glide home. Preferably with a croissant in hand.

My eldest was also overly comfortable with the perambulator. When it was her time to start school, she had no qualms about hitching a lift with her little sister. We had been given a double seater and with two seats facing each other, it was like their own private little rowboat. They’d enjoy a natter – or a bit of kickboxing if the mood was dark – as merrily we rolled along.

I worried her peers in prep might judge her choice of transportation as “babyish”, so when we neared the school gates I’d pointedly ask if she’d like to walk the last bit. She declined, enjoying the door-to-door service and blissfully oblivious to the judgment of others.

I didn’t like to shame her, but I felt a nudge was necessary and pointed out that no one else was sitting down.

She surveyed the courtyard.

“But, Mum, that grown-up is.”

I looked over to where she was pointing.

“Well, yes, darling, but they’re in a mobility scooter.”

Eventually, she got the message and fully embraced her bipedal-ness.

Breaking up with the pram is not easy for us adults either. It’s so handy. I can lean on it Zimmer-frame style and sprint us down the street when late. Then there’s the Tardis-like undercarriage storage, which can accommodate an impressive amount of groceries.

Much has changed since we first went pram shopping more than eight years ago. There we stood in the baby shop, gawking at the display while the sales assistants circled us like the mugs we were.

They presented a lot of choice – three wheels, four wheels, doubles, joggers, foot muffs, rain covers. And of course, the biggest decision of all: would we go oat, denim or charcoal?

We road-tested various models that ranged between $300 and $2,000 around the carpeted store. We hit the brakes, simulated sharp corners and tested the suspension. In the end, a nifty mid-range number (in charcoal) caught our eye. It was nothing fancy but it was light and you didn’t need a doctorate to put it together.

My maiden voyage with its tiny passenger was surreal. With both hands gripping the handles, I self-consciously edged out on to the street. Was my pushing style OK? Did I look like the newbie that I was? The sun kept hitting the baby at all the wrong angles and she wailed the whole time.

Six months on, I was at a maternal child health appointment. The nurse paused her examination to look out the window at a mother on the street. You can tell how a mum is coping by the way they push a pram, she mused. I could relate to the harried woman pounding the footpath and radiating stress – sleep deprivation wreaks havoc with your pram-pushing style.

We’ve covered much ground since then. I’ve been bent double pushing it up hills, struggled on to trams, squeezed through narrow supermarket aisles, traipsed through London boroughs and swerved around possum poo. And now my youngest child’s toes are practically grazing the ground.

So, it’s time. But how will we part with our trusty chariot?

I don’t think I could sell it. Mainly for sentimental reasons, but also because I once left a banana in the hood and forgot about it. The black and oozing fermented mess I found weeks later has left a lasting impression.

I asked my youngest how she felt about letting go of the pram. It was FINE, she said, perhaps a little too quickly. She suggested we give it away to an “actual toddler baby”. Sentimentality is for older folk.

So that’s decided then. We’ll give it away to a local family and get misty-eyed seeing it roll around our neighbourhood. Hopefully the new owners won’t mind a bit of fossilised banana.