On Tuesday, my kids and I went into their school to help set up for the year. State schools in parts of the UK are returning for the autumn term in the coming days and in parts of the US, including New York, public schools go back next week after Labor Day. In both cases, it’s the end of a very long break, and these dog days of summer aren’t easy; most of the college-age babysitters have disappeared, summer camps are over and the lure of the iPad looms large. And yet, unpacking boxes of books in my children’s third-grade classroom this week delivered a greater sense of renewal than New Year’s Day. Some of this frisson speaks, simply and sadly, to my relationship with stationery – the thrill of cracking open a new exercise book has never quite faded. But even before I had kids, the September reset hit heavier than new starts at other times of the year. Habits of mind formed 30 years ago surface in September unbidden. Right, I think, all my sloppy efforts and opt-outs have been dismantled over summer and now it’s time to hit the tarmac (my internal voice pipes in straight from 2007 buddy action comedy Rush Hour 3). This time, I promise myself, it’s going to be better. We’re going to get up at 6am every day. We’re going to make it in for school breakfast. I am going to be a machine of productivity and low carbohydrates. Every day, I will measure out seven almonds, like Barack Obama, and double my walking speed for better aerobic health. For us, the big issue to tackle is bedtime. By the end of the summer term last year, my two seven-year-olds were still up at 10pm every night. Over the past nine weeks, this advanced to a semi-nocturnal state in which none of us turned in before midnight. It was abnormal but it worked: for the entire summer my children slept for 12 hours a night, the dark circles under their eyes disappeared, and I got everything done in the morning before they surfaced, at noon, for an early lunch. With a week on the clock before school, however, it is time to pull ourselves together and start the project of becoming entirely new people. An advantage of parenting in certain parts of New York is that so many people have therapists for their children you can crowdsource their advice without visiting one yourself. From research among friends, I’ve discovered that a strategy favoured by paediatric behaviouralists is an incentivisation structure much like the one used to motivate America’s corporate sales force. For example, “sleep tickets”. At the beginning of each week, according to those who charge $250 an hour, you issue your child three sleep tickets that can either be spent in coming out of their room after they’re supposed to be asleep (going to the loo doesn’t count), or hoarded until Friday, when they can be exchanged for a monetary amount of your choosing. This seems laborious, and I’m very bad at implementing systems of governance in my house rather than just living alongside my children as if they are two 40-year-old roommates. But on Tuesday night, we give it a whirl. There’s a lot of discussion over the fine print. “Does it count if we write you a note and put it under the door?” Wait, what? “Do we lose a sleep ticket for writing a note?” Already I’m bored but try to hang in there. “Yes, it counts. After lights out, any non-emergency communication costs you a ticket.” “What if we go to sleep in our room, but come in to yours in the middle of the night? Does that cost a ticket?” I waver. “Um. That’s fine. But you have to go to sleep in your own beds.” Wildly, I fix the value of their weekly ticket allocation at $5 per kid, which is far too high. And it works, sort of – they go to sleep promptly on Tuesday night, dreaming of Friday’s promised trip to the toy aisle at Target – only to wake at 3am to shuffle into my room. It’s not quite a win. Still, the shining promise of the autumn term beckons. We have two new backpacks, with matching pencil cases and pristine erasers. We have new shoes. On Monday, I do a wardrobe and books clear out that makes me feel as if I have climbed Kilimanjaro. I buy the high protein pasta nobody likes that will turn us into Olympic athletes. Despite all prior experience, hope surges. We can do it this year, I know it, we can. (During the course of writing this piece I’ve eaten approximately 75 almonds, but I’m not starting the nut rationing thing till next week). Emma Brockes is a Guardian columnist