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“Mummy Work.” He is a dissheveled bedhead, two-foot-nine-inches of pyjama-clad little boy standing between me and the front door. “You no going to work today. It Saturday.” It’s Tuesday. He wants me home with him all of the time and I can never understand it; by the time that the weekend rolls around I feel so thinly-spread that I’m almost transparent, like I never get the chance to be the best Amber that I can be, the best mother that I can be. But I always try to ensure that their weekends are packed full of adventure, that we go out and DO things (I can either be exhausted in the house or go out and be exhausted at Winter Wonderland or on a nice amble through the woods), that we make time to play and to laugh a lot. I feel very strongly that at the weekend, Kirsty should…