early years

A Simple Birthday Party

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A few months ago: E – “for my 5 birthday party, I want”… Me: Sure.

About six weeks ago: Me – “We’d better start working out what you would like for your birthday party”.  E – “I don’t want a birthday party. I just want like what S had for her 3 birthday. That cake with strawberries”. Me: Sure. Are you sure? Because I don’t want us to get to your birthday and you decide you want a party after all. 

Hahahahahahaha

There was much flip-flopping. She wanted a party. She didn’t want a party. She wanted a party but NOT inviting these two people. She wanted a party and inviting kids from her class – remembering that school started at the end of January – who she had not told me she had ever played with. She didn’t want a party. She wanted a party.

Eventually, I took the reins. Party, BUT the whole class is invited as we are absolutely NOT playing favourites in prep at all, really. Play date at the park for whoever can come on relatively short notice and I am just bringing a cake. No food. No drinks. No games. No balloons and streamers and all the other stuff. Just. Cake. 

It couldn’t be the weekend before her birthday as that was too soon. Despite the ominous forecast for rain, rain and more rain, that meant the weekend after her birthday. Saturday is ballet in the morning – and at least three other girls in her class do Saturday morning ballet, too – and there was a school disco in the evening. Saturday was not looking great for a birthday party. Sunday. Sunday? Sunday. Glenn will be working all day but as it’s just a play in the park and I’m just bringing cake, this will be fine. Right? Yep. Fine. No problem at all.

Hahahahahahaha

This turned out to be the limit of what I could handle. The number of times I pulled the “Am I cancelling this birthday party?” card out. The number of tears that I shed as various things pushed me over the edge. The number of times I muttered to myself about the futility of trying to ice a cake in February in Brisbane what was I thinking why do I forget this every year. The stress I felt held over from the last birthday party, for C’s 6th birthday when we forgot a knife to cut the cake, the stress exacerbated by me starting to pack the things we needed for the cake like the cake knife and candles and matches WHERE ARE THE MATCHES sobbing and feeling like even the most basic party is beyond me it’s just a cake how hard is it?!

I found the matches.

I got three girls and one cake and one bag of cake-related necessities and 3 bags containing 30 party bags to the park. And girls started playing and kids started arriving and having a big play at the park, as I had hoped they would. Parents got to know each other. I found out most of the parent names and forgot at least a third of them. E played with two kids she’s never mentioned playing with before. I loved hearing her say over her shoulder as she got up and started running, “I’ve got to get more enchantments for the campfire”. In fact, E was having so much fun that when I found her and said I thought it was probably time we did the cake her response was, “No, thanks. I want to keep playing”.

Thankfully, she found me about 28 seconds later to say, “Actually, I changed my mind. I want cake now”. Thankfully, I had a mum take a photo of me with my girls instead of it just being me taking a photo of the girls. Thankfully, a mum stood next to me and helped me dole out cake and told each child to take it and sit under a tree so by the time every child had had a slice and some had had seconds, I looked up to see eight kids sitting on the big roots of a Moreton Bay fig tree with dappled sunlight splashing through as they all ate cake. Thankfully, people had to head off after cake and I wasn’t left being the Bad Mum who was actually having to drag her children away from her own child’s birthday party because dinner isn’t going to happen by staying at the party. Thankfully, one family coordinated their children and their own parents and their dogs and took one child home and came back with their car to ferry home all the presents. Thankfully, Glenn called on his way home and prepped a very simple dinner so girls could come in and wash hands and rip open presents oh my goodness me the presents and then eat and wash and go to bed and not sleep until stupid o’clock because what a day.

It was simple. It was more stressful than I anticipated. It was lovely. It was actually just what we wanted it to be. A simple birthday party for our E.

Linguistic Quirks

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The main reason I started this blog was to document the now for our family. The big things like dropping naps and sleeping through and starting school, but also the little things, like the differences in how my children go to sleep or the way they like their food.

We are currently in a linguistic phase that I love. I know I should be doing gentle reminders of the way it should be, but honestly, my linguistic training taught me that that will come without me interfering anyway, probably. But the double past tense is here in E and I love it. And there are a few things that have disappeared that I knew would disappear but … small sob. I miss them.

Double past tense gems, that are probably really just gems for Glenn and me, but things like “gotted”. “I gotted some more popcorn but then I spilleded it”. “I slepted all night in my own bed”.  “I forgotted what I wanted to say”. “I wented downstairs without my shoes on and I gotted a prickle”.

Farewell to little turns of phrase that still are with me, like “by my own”. “I did it by my own” will likely remain with me for years to come. “The balloon has blown down” is one that actually will probably never leave us. When C started saying it as a toddler, my natural instinct was to correct, but what do you correct it to? She was perfectly correct. I have to really think about it to work out how to say “The balloon has shrunk” as what I would have said pre-C. “Another one more” has been like a little wisp of smoke that I can’t catch, but hearing “May you please give me another one more cookie”, for example, is a phrase that just melts my heart.

And there are little things that are just little things but make me smile every time. Like hearing E or S say – not putting it on, this is just how they say it – “Aww that is so adawable” – I mean, the way they say it is so adorable. Hearing E or S announce, “That is so hilarious”, or S declaring, “That’s wild”. When they think about it or are corrected, E and S will say “hotel” (or more accurately, hotail), but left to their own brains, it’s “fairytale”. “When we stayed at the white fairytale”. I have lots of “crickles”, which is what S says for freckles despite numerous attempts at correction. Which is fine for me, but when she says with a big smile to another dance mum, “You have crickles just like my mummy” and the dance mum thinks she means wrinkles and is not smiling quite so much anymore… quick explanation and she was back to smiling but oof.

When E started dancing towards the end of last year, she had ballet (or ballaig, as S calls it) then, according to class schedules, jazz and tap. Not for E. Jasmine tap. Which she totally adored, and even picked a jasmine flower to give to her teacher the next week. It took a few goes, but she (sigh) now does jazz and tap, very carefully, after ballet.

I didn’t notice it until daycare staff mentioned it in January, but they’re right – kids don’t use words they haven’t heard. So if a kid is saying multisyllabic words, it means they’re hearing them somewhere. Hopefully from parents and not so much from screens. The conversation with the staff then had me noticing all the times E will say something like, “It’s so soopendously hot”. It sure is, kid. It sure is.

S still comes in for cuggles. E still has huggles. All girls have BFF neckerlaces. Bracerlets are precious and definitely owned by their owner and returned to their owner if ever found in a random place. The last few days we haven’t needed sun scream because of the rain. S likes the ghosters at Halloween. I tell you all of this on Valentimes Day, when growmups did smoochy kisses and dinner was love heart pasta with parsley pesto and cherries and drizzled in olib oyal … or is it oller boil? So hard to distinguish. 

I know I have missed some. I know they will disappear, at least mostly. But my goodness me, I love these elements of language and childhood, so fleeting and precious.

When It Gets Real

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Week 1 of school is a bit unreal. Everyone is getting used to everything. Activities haven’t started just yet. Kids are shellshocked as they adjust to this whole school thing. Parents are shellshocked as they adjust to this whole school thing. Teachers are smiling and hopeful and being calm beacons in the sea of new. 

Week 2 can hit hard. The shine has come off. Heads down. Meal prep queen on board. Routines. Canva printables for said routines. Pictures, gotta have pictures. Rules. Blowback on said rules. Here’s a snapshot of our mornings this week so when you feel like asking any family with school-aged kids how the adjustment to school is going, you can be prepared for, you know, likely answers.

Monday.

No screens before breakfast. I am the worst mother in the WORLD. C set up a garden for us with felt pieces I’ve cut out recently. I let them watch ABC Kids at breakfast. After breakfast, S decided to do colouring in instead of getting ready. C was busy reading on her bunk and definitely not getting ready for school.

E: What are we doing today?

Me: We’re dropping off S at daycare, then you get to go to big school—

E: aGAIN?!

Me: —and then after school, Auntie J picks you up and brings you home, then we’re taking C to Irish—

E: I HATE DAYS LIKE THIS

I had a big shout at my children who were so not cooperating with getting ready. On the way to school, I pointed out how it had been not such a nice morning and we had screens so this is why we don’t do screens at breakfast.

Tuesday.

No screens before breakfast. No not even a little bit. C told me she was going on strike. No talking to me and no listening to me. I was annoyingly unbothered. She broke the strike to explain that she would not be doing anything I asked her to. I said, that’s fine. I don’t have to order anything from the book catalogue you were so desperate for me to order. 

I think I won that round.

As everyone was actually eating breakfast well before 7, silly me relented and allowed two (2) episodes of Bluey that were my choice to avoid fights or watching for far too long so everyone gets a turn. It. Took. Forever. To. Get. Ready.

Then, bonus, E and C were both missing a school shoe. We had one (1) E shoe and one (1) C shoe. I was gobsmacked and furious and feeling like such a useless, hopeless mum. C wore her running shoes. E refused to wear her running shoes. I managed to get them on her feet, but she kept kicking me to get them off and after a while I just gave up. She walked to daycare in socks.

When at daycare, one of her last year preschool friends was dropping off his little brother. They are not doing so well being in different places during the day (heart melt!) so their mum has done little “hug” notes. Adorable! 

Other mum: How’s E settling in at school?

Me: Well… she walked here in socks because she refused to wear her shoes, if that gives you any idea of how we’re going.

Of course, E stepped in something squishy and smelly so relented in putting on her shoes but insisted on taking off the yucky sock. So she wore one sock and two shoes all day. My head is shaking just thinking about it. When I finally got home, I found one (1) E shoe and one (1) C shoe on S’s chair. Sabotage.

Wednesday.

No screens before breakfast. Again. Yes. I’m serious.

I had three very grumpy girls who were grumpy and bickering all morning. I had another big shout. It still really gets to me that even when we start the getting ready after breakfast phase at 7.10 we still may only be out the door at 8.05. 8.05 is too late. We haven’t actually been late to school yet but it is a near thing.

Halfway up the hill that the school is on – it’s a steep one and I find the Bluey trick of playing wind-up helps greatly – I heard a leaving the house kerfuffle and then a kid calling out “E! E! Hi, E! E’s IN MY CLASS! HI E DO YOU WANT TO RACE UP THE HILL” so his dad and I watched them running up a steep hill and now I know another boy and his dad.

Thursday.

No screens before breakfast. Again. Yes. I’m serious. Like, this is the rule now and how we do life and seeing as you seem to be having trouble understanding, you get a mummy daddy story from when we were young back in the dark ages of pre-internet last century. When my brothers and I were only allowed to watch 30 minutes of TV after school. One TV. One choice. Two older brothers made sure I grew up not getting to watch what I want and, bonus I realised later, also receiving the message that my choices are less valid than other people’s. I didn’t share that last tidbit, but the girls were horrified that I would have had to watch big boy shows or miss out entirely.

Everyone had shoes. I couldn’t find E’s hat. I had bought extras when I saw them in January, but this still really got to me. I did lots of deep breathing and told the girls why I was frustrated. Glenn found E’s hat exactly where it was meant to be. We made it to school only just on time.

Friday.

Fridays are always more relaxed because we don’t have to do the daycare drop-off as well. Of course, we are nearly always late on Fridays. This morning, S was awake early enough that I hadn’t left for my walk so she came with me. By the time we returned, C and E were awake and still needing reminding that we don’t do screens before school. They are starting to get the idea, though, and E and S asked for some colouring in and C started doing acro practice. More colouring happened after breakfast while I had some coffee and before I knew it, we were running late. I did a Mr Bean on E, getting her undies on her while she washed her hands, pulling on her skort while she brushed her teeth. 

For the first day all week, I was relaxed. No shouting. No deep breaths. A bit panicked at the end, but we were not late. 

Bonus, this afternoon was a big step up from last Friday afternoon. Last Friday afternoon, it was a struggle to get E out of the tree next to her classroom and go home. Last Friday afternoon, there were tired tantrums from E and other kids in her class. Last Friday afternoon, E kicked and bit and pinched and punched me all the way home. It was not a pleasant trip. This afternoon, girls shoved cheese buddies in their mouths and didn’t take too much persuading to come home instead of running through the sprinklers on the oval (win!). They were allowed oaty chocolate chip cookies once we were on the way home. I was not hurt once AT ALL. There were stories shared and laughs shared and kindness and happiness and cooperation and it was SO NICE.

The Thing About Summer Holidays

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Dear parents of before,

I get it now. I’m sorry.

That is all. Except my remorseful self needs to vent and explain.

When I was a kid, I was quiet. Like, really quiet. The sort of quiet that always gets “She’s really quiet” and “When will you come out of your shell” comments. Holidays for me meant as much staying in my room and reading as possible. I remember getting all enthusiastic about violin practice, and would sometimes set a goal of learning a particular work over the holidays. I didn’t fight much with my brothers because I wasn’t interacting with them. We would usually go away somewhere for a week or so, which meant I just had a different place to read a book. There would be a day of stationery shopping and then the delight of covering books without any bubbles in the contact. In short, I don’t remember there being much happening that my parents had to be involved with and it was all pretty quiet.

Fast forward to being an adult and hearing the moaning about school holidays. Moaning about school holidays which would come hot on the heels of moaning about school terms and busyness. I was one of those child-free adults who wondered, don’t you like your kids? Isn’t it nice to have them around more and not having to worry about lunches and drop-offs and friendship struggles and homework and assignments and teachers and events and sports? Why do you complain about all those things when they’re on and then complain about the absence of all those things when they’re not? 

Fast forward some more to the summer just before C started school, where we screamed at each other I think every day in January. Only near the very end did I realise she was nervous about school, even though she was saying she was really excited. Once she’d started school, her summer holidays had a bit more sister time, as work is mostly suspended for me so I reduced the daycare days for E and S. It was stressful having them all around more because of the fighting and the bickering and the constant need to make sure they are active enough so that they don’t fight so much and so that they will sleep. Hahahahaha.

Fast forward to this summer. Deep breaths. It’s been a challenge. Thankfully, one for which I was marginally more prepared and financially better able to cope. That is a factor not at all to be underestimated. Money can’t buy you love, but it can buy craft supplies, and that’s priceless. This has been a summer that has brought me inspiration in the form of a desire to write a handbook for summer. Yes, mostly so that I can do better next time and also, crucially, have more skills for the following summer when S will be about to start school.

There were two main elements for this summer for us. One was that I felt I actually had to get ready for school. The other was all the up-in-the-air-ness and not-usual-ness and change of the situation of having E finishing daycare and starting school.

Getting ready for school didn’t mean just going stationery shopping and covering books. In fact, the school made that rather easy by having a supply levy for prep-2 and by sending a booklist for year 3 for us to do online ordering and then it was delivered and I had to stick name stickers (ordered last year) on and that was it. Other things that weren’t so obvious but necessary were things like actually delivering the stationery supplies to the school last week. Buying proper school shoes. Wearing in said school shoes. Practising wearing the uniform and hat. Haircuts. Getting a lower railing for the wardrobe so that uniforms can hang there and be accessible by girls. Reminding them of drop-off and pickup routines. Packing lunches – I mean, starting weeks ago – for lunchbox practice and also what on earth will E eat at school?! Baking. Trying new products to see if they work or don’t work for lunchboxes. Paying all the dancing fees. Practising morning routines and hairstyles. Naming all E’s things and all C’s new things.

Although a lot more involved than what I remembered from being a kid, that bit was easy. It had to be done. It was done. Yes, I was sticking name labels on lunch containers after 10pm Monday, but it was all done. My To Do List was nicely filled with green ticks.

Then there was the other side. The other side that had me going ohhhhh I get it now. The side that is dealing with two personalities. It’s not so much the two people thing, but two conflicting personalities. Needs quiet. Likes loud. Can sit on her bunk and imagine things for hours on end. Will lie on her bunk and delight in annoying her sister by pushing her toes up against the upper mattress. The side that is dealing with the emotions of however many children are at home and everything that is in the moment and therefore crucially important as well as everything that is to come and all the worries and fears and insecurities that brings. The side that feels the guilt for letting girls be on screens for hours on end so that I can do some work and earn some money. 

The side that, as the home parent, means no break not at all no none. This mental image of lazy summer days just is not true for the parent at home with the kids, the one doing all the upfront parenting. This might be possible in a few years but it decidedly is not the case just yet. And this miss, that expectation of relaxation and the possibility of doing other things that is then not realised, is so incredibly frustrating. Like watching the Relaxation Train go by. I really desperately want to be on it, and yet… there it goes, chugging away while I cradle a child on my lap to calm her after a sister fight or to talk through the what-ifs of school or as I work on what do I actually need to do this year in order for our family to function and try to declutter which also I can’t do because even though I want this immensely and our family needs this immensely I can’t seem to get to do it because children either play with what I’m trying to sort through or they kick off with yet another fight.

The side that is so draining that I am a blob at the end of each day, the “end” of each day really meaning when all three girls are all finally asleep, so sometimes 8.30, sometimes 10.30. So draining that I can’t muster energy to contact the people I love, the grownups and the support network who reach out even when they get nothing back. So draining that I can’t organise playdates or catchups or anything that will probably actually help the whole situation. So draining that the end of the day becomes precious, as I am determined to do something for me every evening, even if that means staying up past 11 cutting out bits of felt or material while watching snippets of a show that doesn’t require concentration on a plot line, sacrificing sleep for some insistence that I am still me and still deserve something for me.

I get it now, parents. I get it.

What We Read This Week (25/01/2026)

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This has been an emotional week. It started with the big, big emotions of when will this holiday ever end will I ever get back to school and the nerves of E as she faces a big wall of unknown that is actually fairly recognisable and familiar but it still carries the weight of new and different. Not to mention that there were a couple of things that we had said we would do but could not do due to illness. I was screamed at a lot for that. As I suspected, though, a lot of E’s big emotions were from the unknown and it being a long time since prep transition days. Thursday, we had a big day of playing at the park then having hair cuts (E has a fringe now!) and buying proper school shoes then dropping off C’s school supplies and showing daddy E’s classroom. E’s teacher spotted her and we had a chat and then there was more park play where we met a classmate of E’s and then S pickup and E actually fell asleep at a normal sort of time without getting physically violent with me. Phew.

There have been a few books that have helped with all this emotional weight. The usuals. Children’s Bible Stories. Ruby Red Shoes. A new frequent pick for E is Maisy Goes to the Cinema, which I find ok but it is not my favourite. It feels like what is probably a Peppa Pig episode but with different animals. One that is very flat and two-dimensional and has the underlying purpose of “Let’s tell children what to expect when they go to the cinema”. Nothing at all like the Bluey episode called Movies with all its humour and relatability and parenting.

A recent library pick for E was two Claris in Paris books. I had pointed these out to at least one girl while book shopping in Kmart a while ago and was met with glazed eyes. I did not press it. Now, though, these are up there with favourite books. They have even been placed on our bookshelves instead of in the library book pile so I see a furtive library trip in my future. One of the books borrowed is a hide and seek book, as my girls call them. As it turns out, my girls love this style of book, which is a fantastic calming tool for them. The other is more of a mystery book with a missing Fabergé egg. And beautiful colours. And acts of selfless kindness. Beautiful.

C has been reading her way through the library’s animal chapter books. Anything by Holly Webb is snaffled by her, as well as a series called Zoe’s Rescue Zoo. All girls have still been enjoying Miss Rita, Mystery Reader and C is still devouring Good Night Stories for Rebel Girls. That one has prompted many conversations about all sorts of things. Cue random questions at random times resulting in me swallowing a few times and wondering what is actually age-appropriate for dealing with topics like totalitarian regimes and occupations of a military kind and how do people recover from diarrhoea and how long does it take to recover from any sickness and how to stop wars forever. Goodness.

Lamingtons

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Australia Day. It’s a bit of a fraught occasion, and understandably so. But until the powers that be come up with an alternative day that doesn’t have the issues the current date does, January 26 is going to be the day we celebrate the good things about being Aussie. Healthcare. Education. Low gun crime. Breathtakingly beautiful landscape. Venomous creatures galore. Creatures found here but nowhere else in the world. And our food! Vegemite, Milo and Tim Tams abound in lists of typically Aussie foods and are packed carefully for overseas trips to share with expats and the curious. 

Today, though, I wanted to make a staple sweet that is on offer at every decent gathering. One that is doused in coconut and so eaten by me in a combination of duress and national pride: the lamington. As it was invented just up the road from where I lived in high school, I feel a duty to like it and bring up my girls knowing this delight of sponge and chocolate and coconut that gets stuck in your throat and demands you take a swig of your beverage of choice. Even though I am decidedly not a fan of coconut, lamingtons are impossible without it, and also if anyone comes in and says “I thought I’d change it up a bit and use crushed almonds/chopped pistachios/extra cocoa powder/chopped cranberries” or anything else then my eyebrows will go down and my eyes will narrow and I will lament the way of the world. Lamingtons are very simple. Don’t stuff it up. Here goes.

Oh. This is the easy way. The achievable way. The “I’ll just make lamingtons” way. Not the way of making your own sponge and making your own jam and milking your own cows to make the cream. Not here. 

You will need:

Bought sponge cake, preferably the double rectangular variety. 

Chocolate topping or syrup that is not too thick. If it looks like it’s set to be a science experiment in viscosity, skip it. Or buy it and water it down a bit.

Optional: cream for whipping, and strawberry or raspberry jam. The sort of jam you would have found in the 70s, none of this 100% fruit business.

Desiccated coconut. Sigh. On the upside, it uses a lot so I currently have not much left.

What you do:

Whip out your baking paper or reusable baking paper. Cover a couple of trays with the paper.

Cut your sponges into bits. How big is up to you. I don’t think there’s a standard lamington size. I went with rows about 2cm wide then cut them into three, so about 4-5cm long.

If you are doing optional filling, whip some cream. It does’t have to be stiff peaks or anything, just a bit stiffer than dolloping out of the tub. I didn’t want to do all the lamingtons filled so I started with about 1/3 cup which was too much.

Prepare yourself. I move left to right, so I recommend sponge, jam, cream, tray. The bottom of each pair of sponges gets a bit of jam on its top. The top of each pair gets some cream on its bottom. If you have a helper, you may end up with jam on both bits. This is fine. We’re not entering these in a country fair or anything. Only a scraping of jam and cream is needed. Once spread, pop them together so jam and cream are touching and corners align, and put them on a tray. 

When you have all the filled bits that you want on a tray, put that tray in the freezer for about 15 minutes.

If not filling the lamingtons, just cut as above and proceed. The next left-right work station is sponge, a bowl for the topping, a bowl for the coconut, lined trays.

Squirt a generous amount of topping into the topping bowl. Pour a generous amount of desiccated coconut into the coconut bowl. Both of these will need top-ups as you go. 

Put a piece of sponge into the topping and flop it around using a fork or something. You just need a thin layer of topping on each side. Once coated, use the fork, Luke, to lift it into the coconut. Heap coconut onto each side and flop it around. The right amount of coconut will stay on the topping. Lift your lamington onto a tray. Done! Repeat the process with the remaining sponge bits and the filled bits from the freezer.

Because this is summer in Brisbane and the humidity is real, I put the trays in the fridge. This helps the topping stay put and not melt down the sides in a fit of ennui. If there are any left in an hour, probably transfer them to a container and probably keep them in the fridge. 

Best eaten with a cup of milk or a milky tea to save you from choking on the coconut.

Corporal Musings

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You know how babies have a presence to them? Even though their body is small, they have a weight to them that is just heavy and comforting and endearing and so, so precious. I mean, they ARE supremely precious, and because we are often holding them, there is a presence that carries through the memory, a memory of a small being that is not heavy but heavy. And this baby body carries through toddlerhood and then at some point you notice that your little baby is much more of a child now, with knees sticking out and not such chubby fingers and a chin and jawline that are that of a child.

But when does this change take place? It slips over so silently, so sneakily, so unassumingly. One day you can pick up a child and carry her to the bathroom, and the next thing you know, picking up this same child is a feat of engineering as you try to hold her upper body as well as some part of her legs and then manoeuvre her down the hallway without knocking her head off on the wall or cracking a knee on the corner.

I am here to let you know that it is sometime between age nearly-three-and-a-half and nearly five. How do I know this? We have spent a good proportion of our summer at parks and playgrounds. My arms are far more toned because I have pushed children on swings for much of the time we have spent at the park. And helping a child onto a swing or up a climbing wall, you notice things. E, at nearly five, is now long and gangly and still a little bit of a little girl but also so very much a big girl. S still has this weight to her, this strong but chubby body that still recalls contact naps and sofa cuddles and being lifted into places. She is still a little girl, barrelling towards preschool yet still … not.

That said, as I mused on this, I recalled C at that age. Well, before that age. A really standout (in the sense of being a day that I recall the day and the date and the weather) time for us was just after E was born and I had the accident with her and we ended up in the world of the Children’s Hospital for a few days which felt like months, but was also, thankfully, not the actual real life months that the other people in the ward were living through. C was not even a month past her third birthday, and she was definitely not in the holding-onto-toddler-body zone. For her, I would say she still had that at just over two and a half, and excuse me while I check photos from that Christmas when she was two and three quarters and … yes. Just. Definitely in the looking like a grown up girl zone, but still with the chin and yes. I spotted elbow dimples. 

It goes so fast. It’s still hard to believe that E is still four. Just four. When she turns five in less than a month, that’s still only five. Hardly anything. It feels like S has lived an enormous amount already at not even three and a half. C is such a grownup girl at not even eight. If you told me she was eleven, I would believe that. Of course, I will most likely be musing on how grownup they feel in a year, and five years, and in ten years I will be lamenting the little girls they are now as they will really be on the cusp of adulthood. It really is a “big ball of wibbly wobbly, timey-wimey stuff”, as Doctor Who said. For now, I am leaning into the cuddles and the swing-pushing and the lifting and the strong chubby bodies. And trying not to lose my cool with all the demands and tantrums and shouting at me for things that they want that I cannot give them. Like tights that are in the winter clothing tub, never mind that it’s 35 degrees and ridiculously humid. Or going to the art gallery NOW when it is serving dinner time. It won’t be like this for long.

What We Read This Week (18/01/2026)

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Whenever I slack off in the reading report, a little part of me worries that whoever reads this (Hi!) maybe suspects that we haven’t been reading. Rest assured, we have been reading.

So much reading.

Nearly nightly Bible stories from the My First Children’s Bible Story Book that my little brother had as a kid in the 80s. It is well-worn and adorned with Bible verse stickers and has a not-quite-intact spine. E has been asking for a Bible story nearly every night for [checks book] nearly six weeks now. Religion is not something I want to be too religious about as I have seen too many times what that can do to people. On the other hand, these stories are important. They are a part of us. They are a part of our story. And, much bigger picture, it is good to have this knowledge. Glenn and I first met at a trivia game. General knowledge is important.

Ruby Red Shoes and her world have been in high demand lately, too. They are such calming books. We were delighted in a spontaneous library visit to find the Ruby Alphabet Book. The original, and feelings, and London and Paris have all been on high rotation. I know this for sure as whenever we are in the ohmygoodnessme will this child ever sleep but no she’s just asked for another story and how on earth are you still awake child – you know, that stage of the evening, I can put my hand out in any direction and find a Ruby book. They are the best.

Speaking of library visits. On a recent trip, I found Goodnight Stories for Rebel Girls and showed it to C. She was entirely underwhelmed. That said, I borrowed it anyway. I do, after all, have three girls to raise. In an eye-rolling fit of boredom a few days later, C started reading it and I kind of regret borrowing it. “Time to put your shoes on. We’re about to go”. Said three times before I realise she’s reading this book and just wants to read just another story and yes she totally wants to go but she wants to read the book more. Insert all the life situations you can think of here, and we are delayed by C reading this book. 

Whenever I let E loose in the library, I am glad I am not a restrictive parent. I am glad of libraries! It frightens me when I hear of reading being restricted. Ideas are – well. I could write a whole post on it. A whole series of posts. Back to the point here, though, which is that E will find all sorts of books. Some parents would discourage a child from reading some of these. For example, we’re Anglican Christians, so when E wanted to borrow a book celebrating Eid, I know some parents would say no. We’re Anglo for the most part, so books about Aboriginal Dreamtime stories and how the culture is woven into Aboriginal lives could be accidentally-on-purpose not borrowed. 

But. But. But. Before I had kids, I did go through a big “I really want kids. Why am I being so selfish? Kids drain the earth’s resources. Think of the future. Think of all the other kids”. But I wanted my kids to make a difference in the world, to be kids who grew up to change the world for good. That’s not going to happen after age 15 if it hasn’t started age early. Books open doors to other worlds as well as explaining our world and creating pathways for processing. 

So E’s latest choice from the library, which has been quite popular with all my girls, is about a child and a dad, and the dad is … sparkly. Miss Rita, Mystery Reader (Sam Donovan and Kristen Wixted, illustrated by Violet Tobacco), is a lovely exposure to blokes who wear fancy sparkly glittery garb. Simply explained. Simply put. That’s it.

Isn’t it nice to just let them be. Kids, I mean, but also just the rest of the world. 

Keeping Mum

/ annamurray / Leave a comment

Instructions for motherhood. Eat plenty of healthy foods while pregnant. No, not that much. Exercise regularly during pregnancy. No, not that way. And not that much. Be consistent in your everything. But also, you need to be flexible and recognise that everything changes all the time. Talk to your baby as much as possible. This is how they learn language. Don’t use so many words when talking to your child. They can’t take it in. It overwhelms their brain. 

It’s this last one that I have been working on lately. Maybe a month before Christmas, I stopped. Not entirely, of course. But my verbal output has drastically reduced. Here’s why and what I have noticed as a result.

The why. Have you seen the episode of Bluey (yes, there’s an episode for everything) called Show and Tell? Well, that’s why, in a nutshell. Grownups talk too much. Kids can’t take in all those words. Minimise the words to maximise the understanding. Well, not so much understanding as engagement and connection. They have better things to do, and even if their body is trained to stay still and listen and say an appropriately-timed “Okay” or “Yes” or “Sorry”, their brain has really moved on.

Further to the why, though, is the why for me now. I mean, I’ve been a huge fan of Bluey since C started watching it during lockdown. And I have been reading parenting posts on social media for quite some time now in order to glean all the helpful tips I can without going the next step of enrolling in a child psychology course. I thought I was fulfilling the “talk but not too much” criterion of parenting. I was still, though, frequently saying (please don’t judge me I’m still learning) phrases like, “Am I talking to myself here?”, and “Is anybody listening to me?” Bonus, E is in the 4-year-old girl phase of super chatty combined with the lack of impulse control from E and S that means that I am interrupted allllllll the time. Reducing my output has reduced my frustration at being interrupted and at not being heard 

Also in the why for me now category is volume control. I am trying soooooo hard to reduce my shouting. Yelling. Raising my voice. For a huge number of reasons, most of which I think will be bleedingly obvious so I won’t waste anyone’s time here, but also, C is super sensitive to loud sounds so any shouting just upsets her and doesn’t have any other effect, and also, shouting has no effect. Kids don’t magically listen if the volume is raised. Kids don’t instantly stop doing the thing that made the shout happen. Often, they just keep going but now think it’s a game and isn’t that fun. My number one job of keeping them safe needed a better way.

I took inspiration from Mrs March in Little Women. Hold it in. Keep mum. Purse those lips. If necessary, do something else with my body, like rage washing or rage cleaning or rage sorting. She doesn’t call it that, of course, but the result is the same. 

There was also the What If making me still talk a lot of What if they are about to do something that will hurt them or another? But you know what? We are into the learn by doing stage. It has other names, too, but I’m not going to type them here for my mum to read (Hi mum!). The general idea is, do what you can to keep your kids safe but there will come a time when they’re just going to do what they want anyway and then they can find out for themselves why it was a not recommended course of action. Like, if you climb on those rocks, cool, but when you fall off (which you will because I know you don’t have that much rock climbing experience or balance capability just yet) then you’re going to fall into that big mud puddle there and being muddy isn’t a sensory experience you enjoy. Oh look at that. You fell. You’re muddy. You’re screaming about being muddy. The Old Me would have then given the lecture. The, “See? This is why I said not to climb on the rocks. I could see” – and honestly, I’m bored by myself. Poor kids. New Me: “Yep. You’re muddy. Shall we try to clean you up here or head home now?”

This approach of minimal talking has become most apparent at bedtimes. Bedtimes, when I am still on and haven’t been able to do much of anything for me or on my own since a walk (ideally) around 6am. Bedtimes, when I have been trying so hard all day to be thoughtful and caring and curious about what on earth led them to do that thing that ended up with everyone in tears. Bedtimes, when I’m actually just wanting to curl up in bed myself because it’s actually really hard to function every day on an average of less than five hours’ sleep a night for years. 

Keeping mum started out for me as a little experiment. Did it make a difference. Did it reduce my shouting. Did it reduce my stress. Did it reduce my guilt. Did it make bedtimes easier. The answer? A resounding “yes” to all of these. Especially yes to reducing the guilt. That may sound strange, but when you talk more, you say more, and if you’re at the end of your tether, it’s easier to let words slip out that are regrettable, that you hope were words that were ignored like so many other words but you can never tell, can you. Three years from now you may have a kid saying, “Remember that time when I was four and a half and you said you wanted to run away and join the circus because at least animals go to sleep when they’re tired”. Not that I’ve ever said that, but you get the idea. Children don’t hear a word that you want them to hear. Children hear things when you think they’re not listening.

I feel I should spell out, though, that this hasn’t meant I have stopped talking altogether. In fact, I don’t think anyone has even actually noticed my reduction in wordiness except for me. More importantly, though, the important things are definitely still said on a daily basis. I love you. I’m so glad you’re with us. I’m so glad I get to be your mummy. 

There are newer snippets that I am trying to work in, too, thanks to my parenting gurus on social media. I’m feeling very frustrated right now so I’m going to do some deep breaths and try to push the wall away. I got so worked up earlier today, but you helped me so much by just being calm next to me so I could take deep breaths and calm down, too. 

And my new personal favourite (from Nurtured First) because I don’t think I’ve been explicit enough in sharing with my girls that I can handle all their emotions (because, to be brutally honest with myself, I don’t deal very well with the bigger emotions) and that I love them always and forever, no matter what: 

I love you when you’re happy. I love you when you’re mad. I love you when you’re silly. I love you when you’re sad.

Baking Across America – Bing Bars

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One of the things that will always make me feel like a kitchen goddess or just a half decent mum is if I bake something in the morning, before people are up for breakfast. We had a plan for Saturday and I imagined baking these Bing bars, breakfasting, then being able to take photos on our picnic blanket in the botanic gardens with dappled summer sun and warm blue skies and butterflies and green grass and happy children and … and life happened, instead. I prepped the night before (the virtue! the smug!), and was very glad I did because, if you haven’t tried this, pitting and chopping cherries to get 450g of them takes a long, long time. And then it was a Bad Night, where I was ditched from bed by E before midnight and she was awake and coughing and S was awake and awake and awake and Glenn wasn’t feeling great and I slept on the sofa and while it’s not such a problem it was also not very comfortable. 

Having been a Bad Night, though, meant that E and S both had significant sleep-ins, so I could get on with baking this without endless “Mummyyyyyyy” interruptions. Extra kitchen goddess points for simultaneously making scrambled eggs for breakfasts as well as Biscoff toast and juices and cups of tea and sourdough toast and oh look at that more scrambled eggs. As the cherries took a while to cook down into jammy goodness, I also tackled some of Washing Mountain and felt extra smug. 

This recipe was definitely not next on my list of what to bake from this book (Baking Across America by B. Dylan Hollis). I was planning on trying one of the northeast cookies, I think, but my mind just kept coming back to these. I mean, what even are Bing cherries? As it turns out, they’re cherries. Normal cherries. And Australian cherries are just sold as Australian Cherries, but Bing is one of the varieties grown and sold – Google has been my friend – so instead of resisting the urge and baking something else, I caved. We have abundant cherries at present so I didn’t even buy frozen, but risked buying two punnets and pitting and chopping them myself. Next time – and there will definitely be a next time as this was definitely a winner and has been definitely requested for lunch boxes – I will use frozen. 

I am not one for selfies, but if I were, you would have seen my face in various stages of delight to worried to concerned to wide-eyed to panicked to blissed out to shocked to satisfied. What a ride. I think I possibly cooked the cherries down a little further than the recipe intended, because when it came time to transfer the mix onto the base, it turned out to be toffee. Pro tip: make somebody else wait to do what they want in the kitchen so that they clean out that tough sticky mess for you. Ahem.

Maybe it’s my Scottish heritage, but rubbing cold butter into oats and flour and sugar just makes things right. It settles me. Makes me feel connected to generations of Scots bakers before me, even if the butter isn’t really cold because this is Brisbane in summer and nothing is staying cold for more than two minutes out of the fridge. I had a slight moment when it came to the egg wash, as I drizzled it on as instructed and in the moment it took me to pick up my pastry brush, all the egg was soaked into the topping. A valiant effort was made to no avail, so one portion of the slice is impressively tan while the remainder looks ordinary but bland.

One thing I appreciate about this book is the absence of serving numbers. Who’s to say if a cake will serve 24, 12, 3 or 1? Exactly. I cut this slice into 16 squares which is a perfect amount for sating the sweet tooth but not going sugar crazy. Girls, as mentioned, loved it. Glenn is not much of a sweet tooth so had a half piece – see, it could serve 32 if it was just Glenn eating it – and seemed to enjoy it.

I was determined to take some photos outdoors, so when I took the girls outside in the afternoon we also took out the picnic blanket. What a thrill! We were just in time for late afternoon sunshine. Girls were mighty disappointed to be not eating the rest of the slice, but did their best to sneak bites anyway. We clearly left some crumbs around because every dog out for an afternoon walk was very excited, and one owner even brought her dog right into our garden. Wild.