Somewhere between 1am and 4.25am: Someone is screaming my name. Well, not my actual name because no one I live with in the house has ever called me by my actual name in about 6 years. I tend to go by mum, mama, babe or just ‘hey’. Now though, at this ungodly hour, the smallest human is shouting ‘Mama!’ on repeat. If I had to hazard a guess it’s one of two things: a nightmare or a wet bed. Is it wrong that I really hope it’s a nightmare?

7am: The kids bound in like baby elephants high on life and ready to kick the shit out of a new day. I reach for the matchsticks I require to keep my eyes open and offer both my ovaries to the god of get ups if my husband will get up with them. ‘Your turn,’ he says. Fuckety fuck.

7.03am: “WILL SOMEONE PLEASE ANSWER MY QUESTION!” I bellow. I’ve been awake for 3 minutes and in that time I’ve asked eleventy billion times what they want for breakfast and I’ve been ignored eleventy billion times. Kids want TV. I say no. They cry. I turn on the TV, sigh, and stand in the garden with a coffee and my vape that I’ve hidden from the kids for a year now but frankly, right now, I wouldn’t care if they walked in on me smoking crack. Whatever. It. Takes. Right?

7.45am: I’m drinking my seventh cup of coffee and while my inside are vibrating with the caffeine I’m starting to feel more awake. Kids still watching TV.

8.30am: Kids still watching TV.

8.31am: “Right time to get dressed and ready for PE with Joe!” I use my most peppy, most enthusiastic voice. The kids groan and demand to continue watching TV. I want to fight them, I really, really do but I also really, really don’t. So I tell them they can have 10 more minutes of TV and then it’s going off and we are going to do PE - no questions, no fights, no tantrums. They say, “Yes mum. We promise. Thank you!”

8.41am: Questions, fights, and tantrums ensue when I turn the TV off, as predicted. I contemplate dragging them through the process of getting dressed, hair, teeth etc., but realise that no matter how much I try, I really can’t be arsed. Never mind, I tell myself. It’s about being ‘good enough’ and pyjamas are ‘good enough’ for PE.

9.00am: Turn on the TV and wait for Joe Wicks to grace our screens. The first day he did this the eldest stuck it out for about 11 minutes. The youngest took one look, appeared to think, ‘Fuck this shit,’ and wandered off, grabbing an iPad on her way. Internally, I have to admire her candour but also understand I can’t be seen to be publicly condoning it. I offer a half-hearted admonishment but decide that highlighting the fact that she’s fucked off with an iPad might alert the eldest to the possibility so decide to sacrifice the physical health of the youngest to see if I can save the eldest. It’s not the same as picking a favourite, is it?

9.07am: Look up from ‘mounting climber’ and realise I’m on my own. It’s like that time when they were small and we’d all sit down to watch In The Night Garden at the end of the day, but after 10 minutes I’d realise I was the only one watching the fucking Tombliboos lose their trousers and they were off drawing on the walls. Eldest has found the other iPad and so I am working out, at home, in my pyjamas, with my boobs giving me black eyes and rising feeling of rage. Am I the only one who gives a shit?

10.00am: Time for lesson one! More questions, more fights, more tantrums but I try to stand firm. I don't actually care whether they learn much - we just need to survived rather than thrive - but I am losing my damn mind without any structure to the day and separating them for an hour each day at least turns the volume down on life temporarily. Spend 15 minutes watching YouTube videos on Hibernation before I relented and turned on Just Dance. She gyrated (finally some exercise!) and I answered emails. Ok, ok, I scrolled on Instagram. Same diff.

12pm: Lunchtime. Select all the beige food from the fridge. Throw it all on one plate. Add a couple of slices of cucumber for ‘veg’ and declare we are having a carpet picnic as a family. What japes! What memories. The kids spill their smoothie, my back starts to hurt, so we trek back to the table and yes, the TV goes on. Sue me.

1pm: I announce that it’s time for free play. They look blankly at me. “What does that mean?” they ask. “It means you can do what you want,” I say brightly. They ask if I can play lego with them. I fear they are not understanding. “No darlings. Free play is when YOU play by yourself. No mummies or daddies. Just each other and your medical imagination!” Even I want to stab myself in the face for my Enid Blighton-esque attempts. “OK, so can we have our iPads?” they ask. “No,” I reply, the rage rising. “No screens, no TV, no adults. Just you and the gazillion toys you have.” They wander off, confused.

1.04pm: For the last four minutes I’ve been listening to the kids either a) screaming and crying at each other or b) wailing ‘I’m bored’. I pop my headphones in and reheat my coffee in the microwave.

2.30pm: Wake up in a panic. Where am I? What day is it? Where are the kids? What happened? Everything seems worryingly quiet. Discover children ploughing their way through my collection of Charlotte Tilbury make up. Some of it on their face, most of it on their clothes and a significant portion of it on my bed sheets. Can’t decide wether to scream or leave them to it. It’s not like I’ll be needing it anytime soon. Decide to try and salvage the day by announcing it’s time for lesson 2!

3.30pm: Actually managed to get the eldest to do some actual work. Feeling like a goddess, earth mother and wonder teacher all in one. I can do this. Lockdown is wonderful - we’re connecting, bonding and discovering things we didn’t know about each other. Like the fact that my eldest is prone to sharting. On my office chair no less, but considering she wrote four lines about hibernation and coloured a picture of a dormouse in without screaming at me, I don’t care. She can shit where she likes.

3.45pm: Oh it’s almost 4pm. It’s legit ok to have a beer at 4pm, isn’t it?

4pm: Ah, beer.

5pm: Pour a glass of wine ready for my daily date with 10 Downing Street. Every. Day.

6pm: Put dinner on the table and go through usual ritual of screaming at kids after they announce they are NOT GOING TO EAT IT BECAUSE IT LOOKS YUCKY. They cry, I cry, my husband storms off. Such a lovely end to a lovely day.

7pm: Bath time. Take about 20 seconds to wonder if other parents play with their kids while they’re in the bath or, if they do what I do, which is sit outside the bathroom with a glass of wine and Instagram.

7.30pm: “Mum, we’re getting cold!” Shit! It’s been 30 minutes. Tell the kids that I was sorry - I got carried away with work. Get them into jammies and pat myself on the back for putting them on the radiator to warm up. I’m fucking nailing motherhood. Read them ‘Poo Bum’ and ‘100 Dogs’ and turn the lights out with severe threat of dismemberment or instant death if they even think about leaving their bed for anything less that the fact that they are bleeding from their eyes. “Sweet dreams!” I announce as I exit, leaving them with images of violent deaths.

7.31pm-8.46pm: Several visits from the small people later regarding all manner of important requests: water, the tooth fairy’s address, emergency medical treatment for a fucking hangnail…and they are finally asleep. I’m too tired to watch anything on TV or talk to my husband so decide to head to bed.

8.47pm: Realise the laundry needs doing and the kitchen need tidying.

11.45pm: Actually get to bed.

11.46pm: Get out of bed because I’ve forgotten to take the smallest for a dream wee.

11.50pm: Get back into bed and feel more awake than I’ve felt all fucking day. Spend an hour reading only to be interrupted by the youngest screaming. She’s wet the bed.

Rinse and repeat.