They wake us before it’s light, clambering into the bed. Their warm, little bodies wriggle next to ours, stealing blankets and inflicting physical pain – an elbow to the ribs, a knee to the pelvis.

In the darkness I fumble for our phones and hand them over, like we’re the victims of a mugging. The little thugs take them, temporarily sated, and I relax into the reprieve.

It is short lived. “The phone died-ed,” says one. I smile at the endearing repetition of the verb tense, but quickly see that it is accompanied by a look firmly implying I could be the next “deaded” casualty.

I’m taken hostage to the couch. The TV goes on. They watch. Eventually, they become hungry.

I jam slices of bread into a toaster with just two settings – (1) Bloody Useless or (2) The Colour That Comes After Black. I’ve burnt so many pieces of bread that only the end crust bits of the loaf are left. I still have lunches to make. Fuck.

I write out a canteen order and begin the desperate scramble for $4.10 in change. I mutter a silent curse to the cash economy as I stick my hand behind car seats and couch cushions, finding half masticated sultanas but no coins. My eye catches a glimpse of their piggy bank, filled with the profits from missing milk teeth. I raid it remorselessly.

As we are due to leave the house, we take a moment to observe the Holy Feast of Lost Things. Today’s absent friends are a right shoe, a library book, a left shoe, any pair of remotely matching socks, an extremely-small-extremely-important toy they’ve never shown an interest in before this moment, my keys, the other kid’s right shoe, the other kid’s left shoe and, briefly, the other kid …

I begin to recite the Litany of Threats. “If you don’t get in the car now, there’s no TV/treat/play date/phone/ice cream …”. I work backwards through Maslow’s hierarchy of needs to no effect, stopping just short of essentials like water, warmth, protection, the right to housing. I need to leave something in the arsenal, I think to myself.

The children emerge from the house, sobbing. One refuses to get into his car seat and starts planking while I try a series of origami folds to make him fit.

In the car, I realise I’ve forgotten to pack their drink bottles. I reach into the back seat and find some forgotten, half-empty vessels. I do a mental calculation of the risk of the kids contracting cholera, consider it to be “moderate”, and shove the bottles into their school bags.

Pantry moths fly around the car. They feed off the crumbs from after-school snacks and have decided that the supply is sufficiently reliable to make this a good nesting place. Each day there’s more of them. Today it’s a plague of locusts. The kids have taken to calling them their “moff friends” and weep as one escapes through an open window. There’ll be more, I reassure them confidently.

We pull into the school and all the parking spaces are gone, except for the “Kiss and Ride” ones. I consider parking there, but know it is likely that a photo of my car will be posted onto the parents’ Facebook group and my tyres will be slashed when I return.

I park down the hill, instead. The Younger One doesn’t want to walk today so I make like a Sherpa and commence the ascent. By the time I reach the summit my shirt is drenched with sweat.

The siren sounds. I’m free.

But, like so many hostages, I miss my captors.