I’ve raised five kids. Five. You’d think by now I’d have seen it all — tantrums, fights, meltdowns, you name it. But then came child number five. My feral toddler. My screamy-tit, head-butting, snack-demanding dictator. And honestly? I’m out of my depth.

There’s something about kids — some sixth sense they all share. When the house is quiet, they’re off doing their own thing, leaving me in peace. But the second I start doing something useful? Boom. Chaos.

You know what should come out of a washing machine? Clean clothes. You know what actually comes out of mine? A full archaeological dig site of whatever crap my kids decided to shove in their pockets.

They say bedtime is a “routine.” Ha. Bedtime in this house is less of a routine and more of a survival game where I try not to lose my sanity, my will to live, or another set of felt-tip pens.

You think you’ve seen it all as a mom of five… and then your toddler decides to outdo himself.

People say the kitchen is the heart of the home. In my house, it’s the bathroom — but not in a cute, cosy way. More like The Hunger Games, except with more towels on the floor and less chance of survival.

Before kids, I imagined motherhood would involve gentle life lessons. You know — teaching manners, helping with homework, answering big questions about the world.What I didn’t expect was to spend my days saying things no human being should ever have to say out loud.

You’d think kids would be grateful for the big stuff in life – holidays, days out, getting an ice cream after school. Not mine. Nope. My five seem to believe the greatest luxuries on this planet are things that technically already belong to me.