YOU see them being born, play Father Christmas for them, share their growing pains, and – before you know it – they’re being presented with degrees as blossoming young grown-ups.

Graduation ceremonies are defining moments for mums and dads.

They represent the turning point from childhood to adulthood – a light at the end of a very long tunnel.

They turn mums misty-eyed with pride that their children have achieved something special. And they turn dads misty-eyed with a faint sense of hope that the drain on the bank balance might one day begin to ease.

Hannah, our only daughter, was the first in our family to graduate.

Neither I nor her mum had gone to university, so it was all new to us.

Hannah had been through a course at the Northern School of Contemporary Dance in Leeds but, for some bizarre reason, her graduation was held in winter, in the magnificent setting of Canterbury Cathedral.

It’s a long way to Canterbury so we had to make a weekend of it. We had a night in a London hotel, with a trip to see Phantom of the Opera thrown in, and a second night in a bed and breakfast just outside Canterbury.

With mortar board and gown hire, official souvenir photos, restaurant meals and the obligatory new hairdo for my wife, the aforementioned bank balance took the kind of battering that made the tunnel go dark again.

I mean, have you seen how much women spend on a trip to the hairdressers compared to us men? It’s terrifying.

What we hadn’t properly bargained for was the stormiest weather I’ve seen for years. On the day of the graduation ceremony, a black cloud hung over Canterbury, a freezing gale whipped up and the rain lashed down.

My wife had an umbrella no bigger than one of those chocolate Christmas tree decorations in her handbag.

Naturally, it was more important that she and Hannah sheltered under it on the walk from the car park to the cathedral while I got bedraggled.

Then, with Hannah safely delivered inside the cathedral, we had to join the poor parents who had to queue outside, exposed to the worsening elements, for nearly an hour.

I tried to squeeze under the minibrolly, but my wife was worried about the angle of the rain and the potential impact on her hair. She also didn’t like me cuddling up to her.

“You’re going to make me wet,” she said.

In summary, it quickly became clear that there wasn’t room for me.

I looked around me and saw a distinct pattern: mums under umbrellas and dads left out in the wet.

Why doesn’t dads’ hair – or what’s left of it – count as much? Why, in this age of equality, is it acceptable for us to be the ones to get soaked, just because we wear suits and not frocks?

When we finally made it inside the cathedral, we sat in a pew, steam rising from my drenched body, and a drip running off the end of my nose.

I heard my baby girl’s name announced and watched her come smiling down the aisle with her degree in her hand. She looked proud and happy and grown-up. What more does any dad want?

I admit to having a lump in my throat, but my wife was worse – she had tears rolling down her cheeks.

It was the only bit of moisture that hit her face all day – and she didn’t have a hair out of place.

THE THINGS THEY SAY

IT was lovely to go to Hurworth Primary School last week to do a writing workshop with the children.

I’d read them my book, Black- Toothed Ruth Black, about a little girl who doesn’t brush her teeth and is visited by the tooth devils.

One little boy stuck his hand up and told me: “I get a pound from the tooth fairy, but my Dad says the price is under review.”

FINLEY WILLIS, six, is a budding rugby player for Wensleydale Under- Sevens – and a big fan of Christmas.

The team played away at Acklam on Sunday. Before the game, the coach was giving his usual prematch briefing, talking about the need for discipline, work rate and concentration.

“Any questions?” the coach asked.

“Can I wear my Santa hat?” Fin replied.