No playgrounds, no parties, no parks. No swimming pools, soft-play centres or pizza parlours. No sun holidays, or even a low-key staycation to look forward to.
On the one hand, I feel a bit sorry for my kids, whose lives have been upended overnight. On the other hand, why should I? This is almost exactly what my childhood was like.
Although many aspects of our new existence are truly bizarre and unprecedented, one thing at least is reassuringly familiar: its effect on life in the suburbs.
It has plunged the nation's housing estates right back to the 1980s, when packs of carefree kids with nothing else to do roamed the streets like extras in a Stephen Spielberg movie.
Now traffic levels have dramatically reduced, everywhere you look on my estate the kids are back riding bikes, playing tennis, blowing bubbles, climbing trees, playing hopscotch. They have reclaimed the streets as their very own DIY playgrounds, exactly as we did when we were kids.
I lived for many years in the city centre, but once the kids arrived I realised that it was time to move. It's no use living close to loads of great bars and restaurants when you're effectively under house arrest anyway.
The suburbs, which previously seemed uniformly dull now took on a luminous appeal. Identikit houses! Neat verges! Low levels of crime! Convenient school options! So we moved, and it was no accident we wound up in the very same seaside suburb where I had grown up, less than 500m from my old house.
I don't think I admitted it to myself at the time, but part of the reason I ended up back here was a desire to give the kids the same happy childhood I'd had, with long summer days spent playing out on the street, playing endless games of hide and seek and kerbs and Simon says.
Except, of course, it didn't quite work out like that. The town had radically changed since I'd left, as had the lives of its inhabitants.
Now it was three times as big, its main street filled with fancy cafés and clothes shops and the streets packed with traffic. The community was much larger and those quiet streets filled with kids on bikes were long gone.
Bringing my own boys up here only underlined how much the notion of childhood had changed.
Once, as I walked past the house where I used to take piano lessons, I realised with a jolt I used to walk there alone. At five years of age.
I wouldn't let my kids play alone in the front garden at that age, let alone wander halfway round the town. The twin perils of traffic and stranger danger put a halt to all that.
And the street games we had loved so much and spent so many hours playing were impossible. The cul de sacs, once as empty and open as playing fields, were clogged up with second and third cars parked along the kerbs. The spaces had closed down, the kids had gone inside.
Of course, my boys never knew any different as they were too busy enjoying the many modern amenities that had sprung up in the years since I'd left: the local swimming pool, a soft play centre and an amazingly well-equipped playground.
Now, of course, all are shut. And almost overnight, family life has rewound three decades. All that remains to keep the kids busy are the things that kept us busy almost 40 years ago.
My boys ride around the estate on their bikes, just as we did as kids. They explore the undergrowth in the ditches and verges and make dens, just as we did.
They chase each other around circles and make swords out of sticks. At the nearby beach, they clamber high over the rocks and laugh as they bury themselves in damp, shingly sand. Just as we did.
They stick their toes into rockpools then complain their socks are wet, just as we did.
When the weather picks up, I'll insist they take a swim, so they can learn for themselves what I learnt as a child: yes, it's Baltic but if you stay in for long enough, you get so numb you won't notice any more.
Walking along the main street, there is a slowness to life in the town, a languor in the air that I remember from my childhood before the restaurants and fashion boutiques and takeaways.
In these strange times, it is oddly comforting to feel that you are returned to the past.
There's been a lot of talk in the past few weeks about how much our children are missing out on, how they're being deprived of activities and socialising.
We worry about how the experience of the pandemic will shape them. Will they be scarred? Will they be fearful?
But truthfully? I've never seen my boys as happy. They have freckles on their sun-kissed noses and their arms already have the hint of a tan.
And most noticeably of all, they have an unmistakably gleeful glint in their eyes. Why wouldn't they? They're not being hounded out the door in the mornings to school or to crèche; their time is largely their own, to play, or read, to explore, and yes, to take lumps out of one another as boys like to do.
We adults might feel hemmed in and long for a time when we can resume something resembling normality. But when you're small, a whole universe can exist within a 2km radius, in which you can make all your own adventures.
As a lesson in downsizing, we have all learnt a great deal.