Yesterday was horrendous. While, strictly speaking, it was the first day back at (home) school after the Easter holidays, I suppose parents across the country made a decision about how stressful they were going to make it for themselves.

I – perhaps predictably – went full-force. I could have eased my son back in, but instead I drew up an agenda, made him call me ‘Mr Brooks-Dutton’ when I felt he was disrespecting me as a father, and argued with him all day.

Others took things easier. I saw another school parent when I nipped out to a nearby shop and asked – from a distance – how the first day back at school had been.

“Oh, it was an inset day,” she replied with a smile and a look of guilt. I laughed out load and wished I’d done the same.

Today started off better. I took some time out to reflect and reset my own internal narrative last night. I’m doing my best in the worst circumstances, I told myself. Then I text a friend.

‘Tomorrow I have a Portuguese part-time manny dialling in to homeschool my child who’s under house arrest,’ I typed. ‘I never thought I’d get to write that sentence.’

My mood, I could tell, had already lifted.

This morning started with another argument about what lesson my son wanted to undertake.

“Can’t I just write a poem?” my nine-year-old son, Jackson, asked.

“Just do whatever,” I conceded grumpily.

Here it is. Take a look and read into it what you will. I see a child who sees a world burning but who’s determined to firefight. Our kids might be hard to homeschool, but they are also doing an amazing job of adapting to these troubled times.