7.15am: My alarm goes off. I wasn’t asleep though, I’d been listening to my girls argue for a solid fourteen minutes at this point. I consider getting out of bed, which I do, just enough to reach over and slide my door closed. I get back in and roll over.

7.20am: “Mum, my neck hurts worse than last night,” says Miss 11, who developed crippling neck pain seventeen minutes past bedtime yesterday. However, her next statement sees me jump out of bed like a superhero who’s just found out the world is about to explode: “It’s been hurting since I fell down the steps yesterday.”

Now, regular readers of this column will know that Miss 11 regularly leaves her shoes at the top of the back steps, and I live in fear of killing myself by tripping on them. So, I hope you’ll understand when I tell you that I had watched her fall yesterday, and I doubled over laughing at it. In my defence, she didn’t tell me she’d hurt herself in the process.

7.32am: Miss 11 has had pain meds and still describes her pain as a nine out of ten. I pack lunches quickly, tell Miss 17 she’ll have to walk to school, and I bundle Miss 11 into the car to go to the hospital.

7.42am: I perform the most perfect reverse park of my life, squeezing my big ute into a tiny edge spot. Unfortunately, there’s nobody nearby to watch my brilliance. More unfortunately, I realise I won’t be able to get out of the spot without doing a 17-point turn, and the carpark will most likely be full of onlookers by then.

7.53am: Having checked in, we await the triage nurse. Miss 11 surprised me by not only reciting her birthdate, but also our address.

7.58am: Triage nurse assesses her, declares there’s no spinal damage, and asks if I witnessed the fall. I admit that I saw it and laughed. She said, “So we’re here because of guilt?” and makes a note on Miss 11’s chart.

8am-9.20am: Waiting patiently. I tell Miss 11 I didn’t bring her iPad, and she can’t have my phone because it won’t be good for her neck. I beat her in 13 straight rock, paper scissors games, and explain that it’s because I know her so well I can predict her moves, which is apparently not comforting.

9.20am: I go to reception, trying to explain that I’m not impatient, or complaining, and ask how long it will be, because I need a coffee. My hopes of making the coffee cart are dashed because Miss 11 is next in line to see a doctor. I walk back to my seat feeling sad before realising that’s not the appropriate emotion.

9.21am: The spouse of the person opposite me returns with a coffee. I try not to cry.

9.43am: Still waiting, so I ignore Miss 11 sneaking my phone out of my handbag to play games on.

9.43 and 12 seconds: The door opens and the doctor calls her in. I prepare myself for the “looking down at a screen is bad for her” speech.

9.48am: The doctor explains that she has whiplash, and looking down at a screen is bad for her. Miss 11 beams at the scolding I got for my parental incompetence but stops smiling when the doctor explains the pain will get worse over the next few days. Poor chicken. On the way out I ask her if I can grab a coffee. She tells me yes, if she can get chocolate cake. Deal.

10.03am: I text Miss 17 to ask where the heat pack is.

10.04-1.36pm: Heated argument via text about who owns the owl heat pack that descends into threats of violence and accusations of favouritism.

1.36pm: I text Miss 17 and ask if her school still has a phone ban in place. Radio silence from this point.

1.37pm- 2.46pm: I reheat the heat pack, agree that a koala would have been a cuddlier choice, retrieve snacks for Miss 11 and attempt to work.

3.00pm: I take Miss 11 to my cancer support group which is attended by readers of OC Life. She walks in like a celebrity attending the Oscars, eats all the snacks and enjoys her hero worship.

Bring on day three. What could possibly go wrong tomorrow?