Ruth Walker: 'For two weeks my little cherubs have scattered shoes, socks and shirts around the house with gay abandon'

WOULDN'T it be lovely to have children, cooed a colleague the other day. "I'd like at least five…" After I'd mopped the contents of my mouth off the computer screen, I took a moment to catch my breath and muse on the sweet innocence of youth. It's hard to imagine that I ever harboured such a rosy picture of parenthood, but lately I have come to realise what a truly thankless task it is.

The Easter holidays are now drawing to a close, thank the Lord in heaven above, but for two weeks my little cherubs have scattered assorted shoes, socks and sweatshirts around the house with gay abandon and not a single thought for the poor, put-upon wretch who has to clean up after them. Every forgotten corner is home to a soggy towel or mud-encrusted football boot. "Where are my shin pads?" the Mild One will demand, as if I am the magical Changing Room Genie, who can conjure up assorted pieces of sports equipment at a moment's notice. "I need them now!"

Shin pads in our house are a little like socks in other people's. We have at least seven sets squirrelled away in boxes, cupboards, drawers and generally lying around on the floor, but none of them seem to match. Where do these stray shin pads disappear to? And will we discover a bag of the missing pairs when the children eventually pack me off, dribbling and nonsensical (no change there then), to a care home so they can flog the house to pay their student debts?

Last week was a particular low point as far as domestic harmony is concerned. Everywhere I turned, I found yet another ball of Easter-egg foil and random Chewit wrappers glinting guiltily in the sun, presumably left for the litter fairy to pick up when she comes home from work at night. Behind picture frames, stuffed between the sofa cushions – if they can go to that much effort to conceal their slovenliness, surely they could go one step further and actually make it to the bin?

And while we're on the subject of eating, where did all my food go? I went shopping on the Saturday to buy their packed lunches for the week. A bumper pack of crisps, 16 yoghurts, ten rolls, two packets of biscuits, massive block of cheese… all the usual paraphernalia. By Tuesday the fridge had tumbleweed blowing through it.

And don't even get me started on cereal. Eight boxes to choose from and my children start dialling ChildLine the minute we've run out of Cookie Crisp. I have reason to believe I may – like the Japanese man who discovered a woman had been living undetected in his wardrobe for a year – be feeding an entire family of homeless people who have taken up residence in my attic.

Then there's the washing. It's no exaggeration to say that the machine has been on 24 hours a day to keep up with the clan's constant changes of clothing. It is not unheard of for the Wild One to go through at least three options in one day – and every discarded item gets tossed in the wash basket, whether it is dirty or not.

Although, to be honest, I'm lucky if it actually goes in the basket. I have retrieved various items of his clothing from behind the TV, on the stairs, in the garden and under my bed – it all simply gets shed like a snakeskin wherever he happens to be at the time.

Roll on Tuesday, when they're back to school. Then there will be no more late nights and inappropriate DVDs. We won't all be snuggling up together on the sofa, sharing pizza because Mum's too tired to cook, and demolishing Easter eggs. You know, I think I'm going to miss the holidays.