Ding.

There’s a sound the school app notifications make that simply chills me to the bone. Please know that I desperately appreciate the school notifying me of events that I’ve read about twice and not remembered, but still. Apparently, the athletics carnival is tomorrow, and house colours are required.

Miss 11 is in Year 6, and I have no idea what colour her house is. Not for the first time, I wish I had a wife. Rather than admit any of this, I send Miss 11 to her room and tell her to find something to wear. She emerges in white shorts, a blue tutu, and a purple shirt, so I’m guessing blue, but I’m not 100 per cent sure. She also tells me she’s going to wear pigtails and asks for scissors to hack out some tulle from her skirt to turn into ribbons. I hand the scissors over, and I do briefly wonder if a better parent would have opposed that plan before realising a better parent knows their house colour and probably has matching outfits and cheers their kids on. Whatever.

There’s also no food in the house, so we do a desperate Baker’s Delight and Woollies run, where Miss 11 chooses a chocolate croissant, grapes, and pork crackling for lunch tomorrow. I had stir-fried cabbage and carrot for lunch today so I’m deeply jealous of her metabolism. We also have one solo apple at home that’s only on day three of its school-home recurring journey, so it’s good until late March.

Lunches sorted, we make afternoon tea and wait for Hubby to get home. I add a record six shots of espresso into the frappe I’m making and suddenly wonder if the crippling anxiety I’ve experienced this week might be diet-related, not a medication side effect. Then I add a seventh.

Miss 11 skips out of her room happily, having had a meltdown in the supermarket, and comments that it’s weird how her moods changed so suddenly. I kiss her forehead, and Miss 17 texts me the 'Lord of the Rings' “So it begins” meme while hiding in the laundry.

The afternoon is warm, and Hubby and I take our frappes and sit on the front balcony together. This is lovely. For about one minute, then it’s suddenly too hot, my bra is uncomfortable, and there’s a group of happy school children walking past our house and I feel an uncontrollable urge to shout “Get off my lawn!” at them.

My poor, poor, poor husband tells me to chill inside (either to help me out or to distance himself due to concern for his personal safety), and he’ll get dinner started. He says, “Miss 11 is in a good mood, I’ll get her to help.” I don’t warn him. As he gets up to leave, I say, “I’ll give you $50 if you can name Miss 11’s sporting house.” He does, without hesitation, and I spiral further. I also don’t pay him. I can’t — I put petrol in the car yesterday.

Instead of finishing my work for the afternoon, I hide in my home office, message the group chat and attempt to book a holiday to Antarctica. Funnily enough, the best deal I found was on Carnival Cruises. Unfortunately, I still appear to be about $33,000 short, which is a shame. It looks lovely and cool there. I make a mental note to book a balcony room for my imaginary, unaffordable holiday, and spend the next 45 minutes looking at Kathmandu sales.

And so, if you too are experiencing a last-minute athletics carnival, an aversion to heat and people, and jittering that may or may not be related to caffeine overdose, please know you’re not alone.

From the kitchen, I hear Miss 11 accidentally spill beetroot juice on her outfit. I really, really hope her house colour is purple, not blue.