After a long week of quarantine, full of tissues and tantrums and none of the normal excursions that help us trip happily through the days, we woke to yet another dull day in which the hours stretched ahead in an endless, empty expanse.
The house felt small, my head felt claustrophobic, our conversations felt like torture and even our new Christmas toys felt as though they were starting to get over-used.
And so, as we fumbled miserably though our morning routine, and I found myself counting the minutes until I could switch on John's morning cartoons, I decided we needed a plan. I grabbed a piece of paper, wrote down "make bird cookies - feed the ducks" and instantly the day seemed brighter because there was a purpose to our play.
All through the morning John scattered bird seed across the kitchen floor, crunched eggshells beneath his rolling-pin and cut heart shapes from the gooey slab of cookie dough whilst I tried to dissuade him from eating the mix. And when we were done we travelled down to the Mere to feed our creations to the placid ducks and frantically hungry geese.
And even though the day still revolved largely around tears, tantrums and tissues, was still devoid of the balm of adult conversation and was still somewhat long and lonely, there was a rhythm to it, a purpose, and at the end, a sense of completion.
And when I went to bed that night I thought: 'I'm proud of what I achieved today'. And I don't think that nearly often enough.