Home. Vodka. Home.

Yesterday was our first full day at home since returning from hell Surfers Paradise. I was looking forward to a relaxing day after the trauma of the recent week.

I was sadly disappointed.

Here is a breakdown of my schedule yesterday. There is a thousand dollar gift voucher for anyone who can pick the moments of 'relaxing' that I actually achieved in the day.

7am - Wake to the sounds of Spongebob Squarepants. Feed & water children, put on 17 billion loads of laundry, unpack suitcases, regard pile of clean laundry to be folded and put away, sit in corner weeping for several minutes.

10am - Book tickets on the internet for son and husband to see The Hobbit at 12.20am. Sweep up rabbit poo and clean the fish tank. Weep for another couple of minutes when I realise a piece of poo has fallen down my tracksuit pants.

11am - Go with husband and 5 year old to visit a friend who is on weekend leave from hospital. Scream in horror at 12am when I realise that the movie starts in twenty minutes and husband and son are not there.

12am - Drive extremely fast safely back home with husband and 5 year old (and, inexplicably, friend's 8 year old daughter) to pick up son. Drive son and husband to movies. Get there only two minutes late. Drive home in cold sweat. Sit in corner weeping for several minutes. Supervise 3 little girls in the pool whilst the pile of laundry grows like the magic fucking pudding.

3pm - Go to pick up husband and son. Stop to pick up house keys from kind friends who were bunny sitting in our absence. Drive back home with husband and son (and, inexplicably, friend's 5 year old daughter). Arrive home. Husband announces he is going to work for a few hours, leaving me alone with five children and a now dangerously teetering mountain of laundry. Sit in corner weeping for several minutes.

4pm - Realise I am out of some vital supplies such as alcohol, milk, bread, medication, alcohol, fruit, bunny food, and alcohol. Further realise with growing horror that I am trapped in the house with five children. Further realise with tears of fear in my eyes that I will need to take at least two of the children with me to the shops.

5.30pm - Arrive home from Westfield with several bags of shopping, two five year olds high on sugar, and the loss of at least eight years off my life after chasing said five year olds around the supermarket for an hour. Throw some sushi at the kids (who, like the laundry, seem to be multiplying like the magic fucking pudding) and crack open the vodka.

6.30pm - Husband arrives home and enquires politely about dinner. I respond, less politely, and have another vodka.

7pm - I can't remember because VODKA.

8pm - Um... Vodka?