Sunday: Our coffee machine dies. It's old; we bought it as a gift to ourselves when we bought the house fifteen years ago. So really, it's done its time. However we seem to be just as broke as we were then, so this is a hard day for us. After making some inquiries, I discover there's no coffee cart serving almond milk lattes at Silverwater Women's Correctional Facility (my current Plan B for life), so we buy a new, bottom-of-the-range, cheap machine. It will bankrupt us and take two business days to arrive. Fine, whatever.

However, Hubby then takes a mysterious phone call in the backyard, comes in whistling and explains they only had it in silver, and to get the black one we 'need' will take 10 days. I leave in anger and buy chicken thighs for dinner, only to discover later while cooking them they are completely rancid. We eat roast potato and steamed broccoli.

Monday: Miss 17 wakes up in a horrendous mood, yet the stupid parenting books tell us "connection over correction" so I pop a note in her lunch telling her I love her and can't wait to hang out this arvo. Miss 12 and I collect groceries and attempt to return the gross chicken to Woollies. After a lengthy discussion where they only offered me a replacement, I walk out with store credit for my salmonella.

After drop-off, I attempt work but am almost immediately interrupted with a call from the primary school. They say, "Hey, neglectful parent, can you please give permission for your child to attend the excursion tomorrow?"

I reply, "No, and for the last f'ing time, my husband is listed as the first point of contact, so why, after nine years, do you only call me?", but I only say that in my head, because the admin staff petrify me. I promise I will and apologise for not doing it earlier.

I then remember why I hadn't given permission; I got logged out of the stupid school app four weeks ago and kept choosing to deal with it later. It takes me 37 minutes to log in. My husband calls to chat, and I ask if the school has called him. They did not.

After work, Miss 17 arrives home and pops her head into my room to tell me she's in a better mood and here to redeem an afternoon with Mum. I sigh.

Tuesday: I meet my best friend for coffee. I have a lovely time with her, until about 45 minutes in when my tummy gurgles and I realise they might not have given me almond milk. I make it home and projectile vomit for four hours, then pass out for one. Then I get up, brush my teeth and pick the kids up because it's pouring and I'm a mum.

Miss 17 hands me a note about her year 12 formal and informs me parents also attend. What in the perimenopause introversion is this garbage? I have successfully avoided sharing a single meal with these people for 13 years and now I have to do it at night while wearing shapewear? My personality clocks out at 4.45pm, I can't do this. Hubby tells me it will be fine, then recoils at the BOLD PRINT that informs us it's an alcohol-free event. Not only do we have to socialise, but we're apparently raw-dogging it.

Wednesday: We have a family meeting which feels a lot like an intervention, aimed at me. There's talk of 'excessive yelling' and 'nagging'. I explain, gently, that I don't actually enjoy any of that, and introduce my family to the groundbreaking concept of 'doing something the first time you are asked so Mum doesn't have to lose her s***'. I push this concept slightly further and suggest that maybe a 17-year-old and a 12-year-old don't really need to be reminded to put their uniforms on and brush their teeth each morning, and I will happily lay off.

17 minutes later, I check on Miss 12, who is sitting on her bed in pjs. Yes, I yell.

Thursday and Friday: I don't even remember what happened. I forgot casual clothes day, at some point I made pumpkin soup that was 'too spicy', I bought Miss 12 white shoelaces for her dance costume, and I missed out on tickets to the performing arts project thing. I have to assume Hubby also got the email from school about it and purchased tickets himself. Well, maybe.