The body in my bed is not my own. Curled around me is Noah whose journey through beaded curtains and uncarpeted stairs to find mother's warmth was heralded by the baby monitor. My dreams were not my own. Blaze called out - first for her daddy and then for an orange. My journeys through cold corridors and up unwelcoming treads to cover a child whose blankets have been kicked off, or to accompany a restless bladder to the toilet, render me blank as the canvas on which I intended to make my mark.

My children know not to shout before Mummy has warmed herself into something human with her coffee. Three breakfasts, three bodies to dress, three sets of plans for the day. The illuminated clock on the wall inches slowly to a time when I can expect reinforcements. I hand over Blaze and try to get Noah to school before the lollipop man crosses to the other side of the zebra crossing - a sure sign that we will get a late note - again.

Lunchtime

Slips by unnoticed. I struggle to finish a book, that somebody somewhere thinks would make a good film. During my "difficult teens", I read about worlds that were mysterious. Of fallen women and whores with hearts of gold. Then both birth and death seemed more tangible, whole communities had something to say about each character's destiny. It was not, as now, every woman for herself.

Perhaps I should read one of the pile of polished but illiterate scripts sitting in unopened Fed-Ex packages marked "extremely urgent". Or I could fantasise about having found the perfect project [Kidron is a film director] and try to work out how to mother my children in some far-flung location while working 16-18 hours a day.

The temptation to order a staircarpet is overwhelming. It would unite us during our restless nights. The texture should be comforting, no harsh man-made substances, it should be welcoming to the soft soles of little humans and their tired mothers.

3.30pm

A time ingrained on the heart of every mother. School is out. Rachel, the person who makes life possible, will pick up Noah. For me it is countdown time. Which of the many undone tasks should I tackle?

I remember the accolades, the admiration, the flowers when Noah was born. Five months of prep. Four months of filming. [Kidron was directing To Wong Foo.] Male movie stars in dresses. More time spent discussing mascara and hemlines than in a lifetime of being a woman. Saved by hours from giving birth to a Midwestern baby, I arrived back in New York so pregnant, I never made it to my apartment. I was taken from JFK straight to hospital, my bags still circling unclaimed on the airport carousel.

From my hospital bed I wrote pages of instructions to actors, the editor and the producer who were due to shoot in Times Square. My assistant arrived looking very young and frightened. The father of my child(ren) begged me to stop making a film and just have a bloody baby - after 36 hours and an unspeakable amount of pain, I did. I was too exhausted to know how much my world had changed.

Teatime

As I walk in, I shout: "Anybody I know here?" and the children excitedly call their names. Noah turns to Blaze and says with the authority of the first-born: "I told you she was coming." This is our routine; my place at the table is always laid, whether or not I am eating, and the menu and the day discussed with equal solemnity. Unfortunately teatime in London is when people in Los Angeles arrive in their offices and pick up the phone.

The previous generation paved the way for my generation to gallop unheeded into jobs previously reserved for men. Being a woman was unhazardous; being a mother is quite a different matter. I am not always available. I no longer answer the phone on demand. The cute message from Noah on the machine makes inquirers doubt that I live at this number, and Blaze's penchant for answering the phone unaided to have rambling conversations makes even the most generous question their long-distance phone bill.

Men in Hollywood take photographs of their offspring out of their pockets faster than any western hero ever drew a gun. Further questioning invariably reveals a wife who "elected" to stay at home, or that they see their children only at the weekend. It's a tough business ... for a mother.

Bedtime

Is sometimes a victory - we survived another day. All tucked up, teeth brushed, books read, songs sung, experiences shared - I draw a breath.

Sometimes bedtime brings the terrible sadness of another day on which we failed to bake a cake, paint a mural, count to a hundred without making a mistake. Sometimes bedtime is merely a break in my working day followed by a return to the office. Sometimes it's the beginning of my adult life - a longed-for trip to the theatre, dinner with friends. Sometimes I am defeated by the distracting, relentless day.

I have been up for 15 hours and the muse has yet to appear.

Weekends

The trick is to undertake as little as possible and do it slowly. Today my children are away. After a week of wondering if anything will get done, I am listless with my freedom. Creativity turns out to be a slave to routine and petulantly avoids the available gap, turning its back on me like an ignored lover. Sleep-deprived and fragile without the protective, demanding, distracting layer of my children, seduction is out of the question.

Holidays

Unbelievably, they come around again. No sooner have you perfected your term-time childcare, and stolen every possible moment for your working life, than along comes another holiday.

I can't help wondering about times past - in all the marching and agitating to create opportunities in the public world for women, who did we think was going to bring up the children? We expect and are expected to work. We travel further, do longer hours. Live in streets where our neighbours are strangers. We are a generation of individuals. Where are we to find the energy for our children, our collective future? I was fortunate enough to end up with work that I love. Was it greedy to have children, a stake in the future, genetic continuity, unconditional love given and received?

I have been overwhelmed in Italy, France, the US, South America, the Middle East, my own home, at Christmas, Easter, August, spring/summer/autumn half-term. Overwhelmed by the need to entertain, the mountain of luggage, the heat, the cold, their desire to shit with no toilet in sight and no power to control themselves. I have been overwhelmed by having to carry sleeping children too far. Overwhelmed by buses that won't stop, cafes that won't serve, hotels that won't house, children.

I want to feel heat on my skin, taste new foods, see first-hand the colours of my imagination. But I am confined to short adventures. Travel is no longer the periodic wanderings of an inquisitive mind. We have holidays to "destinations", at peak times and peak prices. Then just as I despair ... I turn around to see Blaze lying on the ground, indenting the earth with her small presence. "That's Blazey," she points out as she stands to survey the indistinct shape. It is all the sensory help I need. Children have an eye for detail. That indentation is me, too.

Work

Is more difficult, fractured, elusive. The muse used to be easier to capture. My reserves of energy were legendary. My name and presence individual. Now I am often referred to as somebody's mummy. I am joined to so many others and separated from myself.

But what about me - the person who existed before childbirth and gravity had their way?

Night

My body twitches with exhaustion. My mind is tripping. I have stayed up beyond 3am reading something beautiful and purposeful. It would make a wonderful film. I am alight with possibility as I check the doors and windows, the baby gate and the nightlights. My children lie in abandoned sleep, they couldn't be more beautiful. I bend down to kiss each of them as I rearrange limbs and blankets. As I imagine the encroaching morning, I fall prey to the ludicrous hope that the children will sleep late. I laugh (quietly of course). They will wake early, I will need coffee, another day will begin. In my secular fashion, I pray. Pray that they, too, will grow to find satisfaction and inspiration in a day like today.

• From What About ME? by Beeban Kidron, from The Fruits of Labour, ed by Penny Sumner, published by the Women's Press Ltd on May 10 at £8.99.