I sit down in my umpteenth attempt to work on this column. And for the umpteenth time, my train of thought is derailed within minutes.

This time, it is my son stopping by to tell me he's going cycling in the neighbourhood. He's done with his online school lessons and homework for the day and it is now "outdoor time" on the daily schedule my husband made him draw up two days ago.

During this slot, our 12-year-old has to clock some time exercising outdoors to curb his fast-worsening myopia.

He shows me the "cool" watch he's taking with him for the ride - an old timepiece with broken rubber straps that have been reduced to jagged nubs.

Then he checks the time - just after 3pm - and says: "You know, I usually wouldn't be home for at least another hour more."

Now in Secondary 1, his daily bus commute home takes more than an hour.

We chat about which mode of learning he prefers and then off he goes. Our inane exchange has robbed me of another 10 minutes and I'm left to stare at a blank screen. Again.

Full home-based learning kicked off on April 8 and my husband and I, along with our two kids, are trying to be our usual productive selves while operating under one roof. At the same time. For the first time.

But it seems I'm the only one who's having trouble adjusting.

I switched to a flexible arrangement that allowed me to work from home when my son started Primary 1 so I could fit in school runs, play dates and other family duties.

When he and his younger sister began making their own way home last year, I was elated.

I no longer had to dash out a few times each day, midway through editing or filing a story, to zip between two schools with different dismissal times on different days, or squeeze in extra drop-offs and pick-ups on days when my son had tuition classes.

They were keen to demonstrate their independence and I was equally keen to encourage it.

The new arrangement freed up a large chunk of my time and I could take on more work as a copy editor and freelance journalist.

I have since grown used to working in peace for much of the day, when I practically have the apartment to myself. My parents, who live with us, are happy to plan their own activities.

But as Singapore goes into full circuit breaker mode, shuttering schools and most businesses to stem the spread of Covid-19, I'm struggling to define my space - and place - in my own home.

I spot the first challenge as I step into our home office on the first day of the new normal.

My husband is in the midst of a video conference - the first of many to come - and I'm the sort who works best in monastic silence.

I'm well aware that this is barely a blip compared with the pain, damage and upheaval the pandemic has wrought on millions around the world.

So I fire up my laptop and try to tune out the voices. Then my phone vibrates with incoming messages from my daughter's teachers on school-related apps like Class 123 and Remind.

There are various instructions on what her Primary 4 class is expected to do, which I dutifully relay to her before heading back to my desk.

Within minutes, however, I hear the door creak open. My daughter pops her head in, drops down to a crouch to avoid gatecrashing her father's virtual meeting and beckons to me.

"I can't do audio recording," she whispers urgently.

I crouch-walk towards the door and follow her to her room. She is supposed to upload a voice recording for the Chinese lesson, but can't locate a function that lets her do that.

Hers is a basic laptop we had bought recently and might not have been set up properly in our haste.

But I'm running out of time and patience - another assignment has just landed in my inbox. So I offer her the best technical support ever: "Let's switch laptops for now."

She ignores me. She has spotted the elusive icon on the screen and now can't wait to get rid of me. "Okay, found it. You can go back now."

I stop by my son's room along the way to check on him. He's in the middle of a class conducted via Zoom and, upon seeing me, panics and gestures furiously as if trying to ward off the devil.

I roll my eyes at him and hope he gets the message: "Am I so hideous I can't be seen by your friends and teachers?"

I creep back to my workspace, where my husband is still talking away. I decide I can't focus with him pulling a full shift next to me and so, cradling my laptop, I wander from room to room in search of a more conducive setting.

Two minutes later, it dawns on me: There isn't a single corner in the house that offers the peace, privacy and power outlet I need to work efficiently when everyone at home is equally on task and hard at work.

I finally set up camp at the dining table, where various family members stop by to chit-chat on their way to or from the kitchen.

In between, my son's Chinese tutor sends me PDF files of worksheets that are needed for the evening's online group lesson. I slip back into the home office, where the printer is.

Soon after my son leaves for his bike ride, my daughter joins me at the dining table with her afternoon snack, eager to share highlights from the day's virtual lessons.

And, oh, there are two questions in her science worksheets that she needs help with.

The knot of anxiety within me grows bigger and tighter. The day is nearly gone and I have yet to meet a single deadline.

"Can you go ask papa instead?" I tell her.

"He's working," she replies.

My temper flares and my retort is loud: "So am I."

She looks at me, hurt. "Can you be nice?"

The flip side of working from home long term is that my children tend not to take my job seriously. As long as I'm around, it means I'm available - even if the door to my office is closed.

When schools are in session, I can afford to be patient with their myriad requests as I usually manage to get some work done before they get home. Whatever else is left can be wrapped up after they go to bed.

But in these unprecedented times, I'm expected to pull multiple duties - tutor, IT technician, administrative assistant or just a friendly face - throughout the day even as I juggle work deadlines.

At the end of Day One, I'm drained from doing many things and yet nothing at the same time.

While mourning the loss of my personal space and me-time, I recall a message a friend forwarded recently: "We are not stuck at home. We are blessed to have a home."

Indeed, there are many things to be thankful for - to still have a job in a safe country helmed by able leaders we can trust.

Surely I can put up with minor inconveniences till the pall lifts. I just need to work out some ground rules and carve out my own no-go zone.

When we pull through this crisis, perhaps we can add another variation to the common slogan: A family that works and studies together, stays together.