6:50am: I wake up confused because it looks gloomy outside, and I have a vague recollection of Hubby kissing me goodbye very early. I can’t figure out why he left for golf so early, nor why he’d even choose to play in the rain. I thank my lucky stars that I have no such sporting ambitions and tuck myself back in to enjoy my peaceful Saturday sleep-in.

7:00am: My alarm goes off. It is not Saturday. Hubby is not playing golf. It is Wednesday and I have to be at work in two hours. I wake the kids and have a quick, efficient cry in the shower while exfoliating.

7:20am: Miss 17 is wandering around with an iced coffee in her hand, looking extremely Instagram-worthy. Miss 11 is hiding in the kitchen, sneakily eating the pikelets I made for breakfast club. She then discovers a leftover Christmas cracker I threw in the bin yesterday when I was overstimulated by too many colourful objects in the pantry. She retrieves it, hands it to me, and asks me to crack it with her.

7:21am: Miss 11 stands beside me in a yellow paper party hat and reads out the joke. I remind her that it’s breakfast time. Thanks to discovering a pile of eggs hidden behind the bay tree yesterday (thank you, chickens), they can cook eggs.

7:25am: I watch Miss 11 eat and Miss 17 artfully sip her drink and briefly wish I had their lives.

7:26am: I wonder if we could somehow pass off our daily egg hunt as the official Easter egg hunt this year, given the price of chocolate. I add the idea to my Notes app under the heading: 'Poverty Easter.'

7:35am: I remind Miss 11 to get dressed for school and Miss 17 to unstack the dishwasher. I cannot face the kitchen, so I declare it lunch-order day and attempt to steer Miss 11 toward a salad wrap and a fruit cup.

7:40am: Sausage roll with sauce and a Middleton’s ice-block ordered. I turn my attention to the washing. I have largely given up asking the kids to do it, but today I’m feeling brave, so I remind Miss 11 it’s her job. She does, but then emerges from the laundry wearing a tube of cherry blossom-scented bubble mixture around her neck and proceeds to blow bubbles directly into Miss 17’s face until a meltdown occurs. I excuse myself to get dressed and quickly google, “Is ADHD hereditary?”

8:10am: I call Hubby to ask how his day is going. He says he’s busy at work but has just visited the coffee cart and is sitting on a bench outdoors having a peaceful moment. In the background, the dog farts loudly in the lounge room, Miss 11 claps her shoes together instead of putting them on, and Miss 17 pops her head into my room to announce she’s thinking of studying at UNE next year and can we fund her move to Tamworth? I search for available jobs at Cadia so I too can sit on a bench with my coffee. I refrain from pointing out that UNE is actually in Armidale because I’m trying to micromanage less.

8:25am: I walk past Miss 11’s room and see her towel on the floor. She asks if she can play outside until it’s time to leave. I say yes, as long as she hangs her towel up. I remind Miss 17 she needs to leave soon because she’s walking to school today.

“If we’re walking,” she asks, “how are you dropping the breakfast club food off?”

8:27am: We get in the car. Miss 11 pulls out the bubble mixture and begins blowing bubbles into the front seat. I ask where her school bag is.

8:28am: She reappears with her bag and resumes blowing bubbles at her sister. We drop her at school with pikelets, bubbles, and school bag intact. Miss 17 breathes a long sigh of relief.

8:45am: I return home and check Miss 11’s room for more floor towels. I find one. I also find her beloved soft toy Doggie wearing her yellow party hat, leaning against her pillow as if bracing himself for whatever unhinged craziness the afternoon will bring.

Me too, Doggie. Me too.