I UNDERSTAND that these were the shortest school holidays in the History of School Holidays. I can’t imagine what I will look like at the end of the next ones. If I make it to the end of the next ones.

I feel like I have just emerged from a war of attrition stuck in the trenches with nothing more than a flat TV remote and a battered copy of “Where is the Green Sheep? Oh, There He is Still Under that Ruddy Bush” to defend myself.

I approached these holidays with enough peace and goodwill to rival an organic, gluten-free, vegan-themed meditation camp. I offloaded the equivalent GDP of a small island nation on an assortment of paints, out-of-date magazines for MONA-inspired collages, enough glue to reseal that inconvenient hole in the ozone and more than enough fluffy balls to insulate Buckingham Palace.

Day one went very well indeed and, although it’s all a bit hazy now mainly due to the sedation, I do remember thinking that having small children around was a wonderful antidote to life’s adult stresses. And to be honest, I’m not sure where it all went wrong. But it was definitely on day two.

Unfortunately, I don’t even think I can blame the kids. Barnacle Bunny did need to eat and Clag-coated fluffy balls do provide a nutrient-dense alternative to regular rabbit food.

The vet didn’t quite see eye to eye on that one though. And if the sound of your sibling’s fiftieth recitation of “Wake Up Jeff” does begin to grate, peas inserted firmly in aural canals are more than appropriate as a noise dissipation strategy. Apparently they are easier to extract if they are soft first.

But, really, it was me. The expectations were all mine and I was the one to set such high standards that, in retrospect, were frankly unachievable.

As we are rarely let out as a family for fear of what might happen to others, washing is a completely redundant chore. I should have just let that one pass.

Who cares if we look like a post-tough-mudder get together and wouldn’t be identifiable in a line up for the four grandparents?

Toileting is also, apparently, quite outmoded. When have willy, will use willy. Willy nilly, in fact. Just, you know, chillax mum, says the two year old. Gotcha. And as for eating? Pfffft. Honestly, I can see enough in the garden from where I am sitting now to hunt, gather and forage all at the same time. Paleo is, after all, all the rage.

Next holidays, I vow to let all elements of perfectionism slide from my parenting style. I’ll simply prepare a couple of loin cloths and a tidy piece of bark to put the grubs on. My doctor here concurs. I might just stay a while.

Pip Conolly is a former public servant and Canberra mum of two, aged three and five.