I'm sick of being a human being, mam!" Another bad start to the day. "Why is that, dear, and could you eat your breakfast and get dressed, brush your teeth, put your lunch into your bag - and get it all done in under five seconds, or you'll be late, again, dear."

"It's just that . . ." "Eat your breakfast." "It's just that . . ." "Your breakfast." "It's just that we've destroyed the planet so badly, and . . ." "EAT IT!" ". . . and I feel like I can't do anything without contributing to it, I mean even just being here eating . . ." "Please do eat darling." ". . . my cereal is made by a multinational which exploits people in the Third World and making it has meant harming the environment and when I go to the toilet after I'll be sending pollution into the sea and . . ." "Eh, you don't have time to finish that dear, just get dressed and get going, please."

What are we rearing, I ask myself each day. Children with a conscience - who needs it? Children, bad enough, but tortured ones full of embarrassing questions? It's not really on.

Fine, they care. Great, they may do something of benefit to society when they grow up. But what about me, and the here and now? Before the day is out my son has decided he is never flushing the toilet again, because he can't bear to harm another living creature. My daughter won't eat vegetables unless they are organic. In fact, she has berated me for over an hour because I don't have a compost heap and I haven't time to grow my own vegetables. Next day, thinking about abandoning them in the supermarket, I have a moment's remorse and buy a little football instead. We head off to the park for a quick match. My daughter is the cheerleader. That leaves me and the boy for a bit of one-a-side. We decide to practice a bit of tackling. I'm obviously an awful lot better than my son - in fact, it's basically me running around with the ball, my son panting uselessly behind me. So what happens? Mr Sensitive? He boots me in the shin and lashes off with the ball, laughing his head off.

I hobble to the cheerleader, squinting back tears of agony - concerned I might worry them if they saw me sob my heart out. "You eejit, you're useless!", she giggles, cheering her save-the-everything turned brutalised-killer brother on towards the goal posts. And he scores. I wonder whether I shouldn't somehow feel relieved, despite the excrutiating pain. Perhaps they're turning into cruel and vindictive kiddies, the sort that fire any old food down their necks, who fling their clothes on in the morning and run out the door - on time - oblivious to the woes of the world?

It's an overwhelming dilemma. But the truth is, tomorrow there'll be a whole new issue to contend with. They'll be neither green-the-planet heads nor kill-a-hippy psychos and I'll have forgotten how I lost a lump out of my leg. It's a cruel irony about being a parent, but you just do forget everything. Forget colic, smelly nappies, toddler tantrums, first day at school, the expense of the Holy Communion, the battle into the church for the Confirmation, waiting up for them to come in late at night. It's always onward to the next horror, and the last one may as well never have happened. Today is the day I resolve to take it all in my stride and simply enjoy each moment - as one which will soon pass into oblivion.