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This is my end of holidays report. I survived. Just. Though it felt like 100 weeks rather than five and a half. The girls seemed to have a great time. The first bit was kind of okay: I was organised, had planned ahead and, most importantly, NOTHING went wrong – no-one got very sick, no-one got nits, no-one’s car broke down, no-one at work demanded a breakfast meeting etc, etc. My partner doesn’t work on Fridays and my mum covered most Thursdays. My partner took time off, I took time off and worked early/late, there were a few holiday playschemes I could afford and which the children liked [albeit for one day only], my sister came, our neighbour was in a similar situation and we helped each other [she has three boys under 7. They were all having a great time together until bonkers daughter got earache from the paddling pool and the neighbour’s son got chicken pox]. We then had a week away.

By the last week or so, though, I was flagging. It felt like an Olympic marathon, but with no gold medal at the end. I had loads to catch up on from my various jobs, but felt guilty working all the time so organised nice events to entertain the kids and ward off guilt. I took the girls swimming with their neighbour. It was fun, but between bonkers daughter wanting me to watch her doing handstands all the time [she had armbands on at the time], Rebel daughter wanting to do races under water and the neighbour wanting to go to the deep end it wasn’t a walk in the park [is anything these days?]. I love swimming [have always been strangely drawn to synchronised swimming in the Olympics], but you actually never get to do any when you go swimming with children. You are either in constant lifesaver mode or being forced to climb on a floatie and be set upon by small, but determined sharkies.

The next day I had to get up at 5.45 and go to Brighton for a conference. I had not been to St Pancras since it got glamorous. I felt like a country mouse in the big smoke. Lots of posh boutiques and Mediterranean-style cafes. I managed to stay awake for the entire conference – an achievement in its own right - and got a lot of work done on the train home. I have honed the dark art of doing lots of work in concentrated bursts. But, as it said in the news story the following day [women do a 15-hour day], my day was not over at 8.30pm. The girls were still up and the house was a wreck. Everyone was tired and frazzled. I had only had time to have a roll for lunch and was really hot. Everyone wanted to be cuddled to sleep. I cuddled toddler daughter who goes to sleep across me (“it’s comfortable for me, mummy”), wriggled out and into bonkers daughter’s bed then headed to Rebel daughter’s room for a chat.

Next day I had to head up the M11 to work. My mum had agreed to do Wednesday and Thursday, though she is moving house this week. Guilt. I sent her the article about grandparents wanting more rights over childcare. It was a test. She passed with flying colours, emailing me back that everything seems to be about blaming parents these days when the real problem is that childcare/the cost of living are far too high and often subsidised holiday playschemes don’t cover working hours [most are 9-3pm in our area]. My day at work involved lots of walking and catching up on work. The next day was not much better. Bonkers daughter wanted to be cuddled to sleep every night. I think she is feeling left out because I cuddle up toddler daughter and chat to Rebel daughter [because bonkers daughter has usually fallen asleep while I am cuddling toddler daughter].

At the weekend I took her to the corner shop on her own. She craves time on her own with me [they all do]. The other two went into a strop, even though I had promised to take them out on their own too. Just going to the corner shop is a major outing in our house. Strangely, my partner can go out alone with no difficulty. During the conference I went to a session on recruitment. The topic of flexible working came up. One woman got very indignant. She had two children, she said, and couldn’t understand why people asked how she managed. It was quite straightforward and there was no need for special accommodations like flexible working. I told my partner. “What age are her children?” he asked sagely. “I bet they don’t go to school yet.”

ps Toddler daughter spent much of Sunday night in a panic as Rebel daughter's friend came to stay. They were whispering conspiratorially about having a midnight feast. Toddler daughter was very worried. "Does the Feast have a car? What does he look like? Does he have a front door?" she asked all night. Nothing would persuade her that he was not some kind of monster, albeit with sweeties. Inevitably Rebel daughter, who has been her old self all holidays, got a sore tummy the night before going back to school. We'll have to see how it goes. She says everyone at school hates her. The first day back was okay for her though, just a horrendous nightmare for me what with no-one wanting to get up, the rain, forgetting the dinner money, having lots of work to do and therefore getting to school late to do the pick-up and having to ring a friend, rushing everywhere and for the full welcome back treatment the inevitable first trip to the GP and the possibility of children being off sick when we are only less than a day back into the "normal routine".