Ilona Bannister and her husband, Tim, with their sons. Photograph: Muir Vidler/The Guardian A typical weeknight evening in my house might go something like this. I help my nine-year-old son prepare for a spelling test. I sit on the floor and say âterritoryâ, and watch as he lies on his back with his legs in the air and writes it down on a whiteboard next to him, eyes closed, with his left hand. He is right-handed. My seven-year-old is wearing a tank top, regardless of the season, and doing chin-ups using the slats under his loft bed, pulling himself over in a flip through his arms. He interrupts the spelling session to say, âDid you know that the tallest person in the world also has the biggest hands?â He then talks continuously about any topic that crosses his mind during his work out. Meanwhile, my husband, finally done after another day working at the table in our bedroom that serves as his home office, is wearing a top hat from our kidsâ old magicianâs outfit and playing the piano. He plays by ear. He calls out, âHey, did you recognise that â that one was Dizzee Rascal!â