E Jane Dickson: 'I have under estimated their tenacity, their absolute determination to break their mother's will'

It's Monday morning and the children have woken up singing. They sing in the bathroom, they sing through breakfast; the song continues, only faintly muffled, as they brush their teeth:

It's Monday morning and the children have woken up singing. They sing in the bathroom, they sing through breakfast; the song continues, only faintly muffled, as they brush their teeth:

We know a song that will get on your nerves,
Get on your nerves, get on your nerves,
We know a song that will get on your nerves
And it goes like this... [Repeat till parent cracks]

Serenity is my only defence. "How lovely," I exclaim, "to hear the voices of little children lifted in song." Eventually, I reason, they will get bored or hoarse, or fall, hyperventilating, to the floor. However, I have underestimated their tenacity and breath control, their absolute determination to break their mother's will. But three can play at this game. For some reason, it drives Clara into a frenzy when I sing "I've Grown Accustomed to Her Face" from My Fair Lady in soupily romantic tones, so this is what I do. It won't work for Con, but I can break into the "Baby Boy" song he used to love as an infant and which now sets him gibbering with embarrassment and irritation. By the time we've hit the road for school we are locked into a horrible three-part round, battling it out like the psychotic banjo players in Deliverance.

"We know a song that will get on..."
"Like breathing out and breathing in..."
"...your nerves, get on your nerves"
"He's his mummy's pride and joy..."

The postman gives us a wide berth. The dog Clara always stops to pat at the corner runs whimpering behind its master's legs. Normal, functional families pass us on the pavement, chatting amicably about spelling tests and picnics.

But we three are bound upon a wheel of fire, and I flatter myself that I've got the edge, when Clara brings out the Ultimate Deterrent.

"God, Mum," she says. "You're doing it even when you're singing now."

"Don't-say-God-what-am-I doing?" I gabble in the pause for the upbeat.

"The grunty thing," says Clara. "You're doing the grunty thing and you don't even know you're doing it."

"I do not grunt!" I insist, still just about in rhythm, but the children have scented weakness and leave off singing to pursue their latest line in maternal persecution.

"Actually, you do, Mum," agrees Con. "It's not a great big, piggy grunt, more like the noise a hedgehog makes."

It is times like these when the full weight of lone parenthood descends on me. Just when you think you've cracked living without another adult, your children tell you that you have developed an involuntary grunting tic and there's nobody to gainsay them. If God cared about single mothers, I think, the clouds would now part, and "Mummy does not grunt" would appear in letters of flame a mile high, but there is no divine sign. The kids run into school, buoyed up by victory, and I return home, neurotically monitoring my breathing. Later that morning, a friend gives me his considered opinion in bullet points.

"A) You don't grunt," he tells me. "B) You need to get out more."

We're both more convinced by point A.