I want you to know that I’m reasonably well educated, I have a fair sense of ethics, and I topped my school in mathematics for the HSC. Just keep those facts in mind as I describe Friday morning.

It started out differently. It was quiet when we awoke, because Miss 17 is spending the rest of this week at Wollongong Uni. We have everything crossed that she likes it, partly because we are from Wollongong and she could live with her grandparents, but mostly because this is the first time she’s ever looked to be leaving the nest. There’s a whole big world out there for you, darling girl, and I hope you have the best time exploring it!

But back to Friday morning. Without her home, we all slept in. Friday is our medical appointment day and Hubby works from home so he can attend with me, but none of us thought to set an alarm, so Miss 11 had the best sleep-in of her life. We were up at 8.06 and in a panic by 8.07. The good thing about Friday is the canteen is open, so I don’t have to make lunch. The bad thing about Friday is that homework is due and we had such a busy week, Miss 11 hadn’t started it.

Hubby hilariously suggested he’d do her homework for her, and I laughed and said I’d help. Holy hell! Year Six is HARD. One of the questions was how many days in 192 hours and I couldn’t work it out. I had to use my calculator. Oh, the shame.

Another question was “Divide $66 for 6 children”. Now I’ve been a mum for 17 years, so my question was “Do I like all of the children equally?” The question said to divide the money; it didn’t say anything about equity.

But the last one stumped all of us. Hubby even said, “I think it’s a trick question!” It was: How many weeks in 35 days? His answer was 16.3, having somehow gotten confused with minutes, hours and time as a concept. I scoffed at his answer and declared it, “Easy. Six,” I said confidently.

Luckily, Miss 11 was listening while stacking the dishwasher and was able to come over and teach us how to skip count by seven on our fingers.

OK, all good. Homework done, and I’d like to apologise to Miss 11’s teachers for wasting their time by doing it ourselves. But one could argue that teaching two fully grown adults the seven times table benefited Miss 11 more than just her writing the answers.

Once we’d been to the doctor and Miss 11 was at school, Hubby made French toast. Delicious, thoughtful, and I dearly loved sitting with Hubby chatting. However, halfway through, I started to get hot, like really hot. Running a high fever, dripping with sweat hot. I completely panicked and called my GP, who very kindly explained what a “hot flush” is.

At this point I need to issue an apology. Not to anyone reading this who is uncomfortable reading about menopause — either skip to the next section of the paper, or, I dare you, send in an email of complaint.

No. I need to apologise to my manager from 1996. She used to run our aircon at 18 degrees, and teenage me would sit there in my cardigan complaining about how cold it was until she turned the temp up. Oh my God, Leonie, I’m so sorry.

Anyway, I left to go work in our bedroom, with both the aircon and fan on, while my husband hastily retreated from my so-called “crazy behaviour”. This is the point I briefly questioned my opposition to global warming. Yes, it’s bad and I don’t really want to destroy the world, but I’ve seen 'The Day After Tomorrow'. I just reckon there’s this moment, just before everyone freezes to death, when all of the middle-aged women collectively go, “Ahhhhh”.

And so I leave you here, sweaty, sitting topless in front of a fan with my hair in a Peppa-Pig headband because the fan kept blowing frizzy bits on my forehead and I had a sensory meltdown, as my husband gets working on a so-called ‘Mars Bar slingshot’ so he can shoot chocolate at me from a safe distance. I tip my glass of iced water to all the women who did this before me. Leonie, I owe you a drink.