IT will be better once they're at school. People kept telling me that, when I whinged about the children, about having no time to myself and about being stressed by the demands of it all.

Now one of my daughters is there, and although I do have a little more time to myself, the rest is no picnic. In fact, three weeks into the term, I feel the nightmare is only just beginning.

For a start, you can't get anything out of young children. "Did you have a good day?" I asked. "Yes, but I don't like playtime." "Why not?" No response.

After an hour of interrogation on the subject came the muffled reply: "I don't like the big children - one of them pushed me and I hurt my hand." She offered up her palm, with a broad graze across it.

Statements like that put the fear of God into parents. "Did they do it on purpose?" "Why did they do it?" "Where were you?" All you can picture is your little darling crying in a remote corner of the yard, being roughly shoved around by a gang of seven-year-old Vinnie Jones lookalikes.

It's all you can do to stop yourself bringing them home and embarking on a lifetime's home tuition. But you can't wrap children in cotton wool. And when I think back, my first school was pure Bash Street Kids.

Yes it's all one big worry. There's meal times. For some unknown reason, my daughter won't entertain school meals. So what do you put in a pack-up? Sandwiches, carrot sticks and fruit juice won't go down well. If you want to be sure they'll eat it, a packet of crisps, some jelly beans and a bottle of cherryade is the only real option.

And homework. I don't remember being given any until secondary school. But, at the age of four, my daughter has homework. I expect it's all to do with government targets, and at this stage it's basic stuff. But, starting on the treadmill so young, what will she be expected to do at six or seven - produce an analysis of Third-World debt?

It's worrying for us as parents - the thought of being asked to help. I don't want to be responsible for my daughter's failings in maths or information technology.

I used to think my dad knew everything, and if it was anything to do with English literature or history, he did. But when I asked for help with maths he would turn pale and pretend he had some important job to do in the garage.

I'll do my best, but I can see it now, at the dreaded parent-teacher evenings, they'll all be pointing and muttering: "There's that woman who thought a megabyte was a large baguette."

For working parents like us, home-work is made all the more difficult because, on an evening, we haven't time to tackle it. It's hard enough getting little ones fed and ready for bed before 9pm, let alone sitting them down and explaining nouns and verbs.

School involves having to think about things that you'd rather ignore. Like Ofsted reports and SATS and league tables. It means fretting about bullying, worrying about being hauled before the head when your child swears in class and then says: "Well, mummy uses that word all the time."

For working parents it means having to arrange all manner of childcare during frequent lengthy holidays and for others it means dragging yourself to the school gates in the middle of the afternoon every day. Surely a 5pm finish would be better, then at least parents could have a decent day out.

I was glad to put school behind me all those years ago. Now it seems I've got another 18 years of it.