Tortillas at Midnight

This already reads like a dry work memo about cleaning out the staff room microwave and definitely ends with a passive aggressive dig at the union, closely followed by “regards”.  Such fun. Hopefully this won’t be too boring from here on out. I’ve been feeling a bit conflicted lately about this space. I didn’t really know what to do with it moving forward, but it has become a bit clearer now. In short, I’m not going to write about my precious kiddos on here anymore. This probably doesn’t even need a little announcement of sorts, but I didn’t want them to disappear from my blog out of nowhere.  All of these conflicting thoughts have been racing around my brain for the past few weeks. On one hand, I love writing about my parenting experiences. I love that my stories resonate with people and I love it when they say, “same here!” when I write about our messy days and I love how writing about these roller coasters makes them feel more manageable and funny, instead of just overwhelm...

Okay, so I’ve got to let you in on a not-very-secret secret. Two under two life is bloody beautiful and absolute chaos with a side of chaos, and did I mention chaos? Who would have thought? One minute everyone’s crying, probably you included, and then the next the toddler gently pats the baby’s head while you read a story and nek minnit the toddler floods the bathroom while the baby yanks her own hair too hard again and then seven minutes later they hold hands and you think, “ooh yes this is lovely, I’ll have eight please,” and then someone throws hummus on the floor and the moment vanishes quicker than that new box of Nutri-Grain. I’ve been doing this whole two under two shindig for 10 whole weeks now, and so I wanted to record some realisations I’ve come to for when everything inevitably turns to custard again. This way, I can hopefully remember helpful stuff instead of believing that everything is dire and that I won’t ever get five minutes alone until the kiddos are 15. And yes, up...

Who is Amy, you might be wondering? A friend from near or far? Amy Poehler, the star of Parks and Rec (a very noteworthy Amy indeed)? The memorable little girl from Justin Cronin's The Passage  trilogy? A neighbour, a ghost, a bus driver? There really are an abundance of great Amys in the world. However, I'm afraid that none of these possibilities are quite on the money. Lately, it's Amy Sosa who has been on my mind. Kind, responsible, fair and hard-working Amy Sosa of Superstore . The friend of many. The meddler of business that isn’t hers. The let’s-do-the-right thing, the let’s-wear-a-fake-nametag, the ever-relatable and seeker-of-justice Amy. A quick break for a Very Important Memo: if you haven’t already seen  Superstore, you really need to get on it. It’s hilarious, it has great diversity, and best yet it’s on Netflix, divided into bite-sized episodes that are the perfect length for when you’re exhausted but sleep isn’t an option because every evening is Buffet Styl...

Everyone is talking about it. It is devastating and it is entirely unsurprising. It is as ordinary as the air we breathe and unfunnily enough, this is how we come to face this harm. By breathing. By the virtue of existing as female.  I am afraid for my daughters. And I am angry too. This world is not kind, especially to women. And toxic masculinity and the patriarchy are not kind either. To anyone. I don’t want to raise my daughters to hurry through the quiet streets at night, keys clutched tight, and four different exit routes mentally mapped out. I don't want to raise my daughters to never leave the group, to hesitate before hopping in an Uber, and to always text their friends to make sure they got home okay. I don't want to raise my daughters to question what they wear, to put their hair up instead of down, and to always have a polite, ready-made excuse. I don't want to raise my daughters to have to do any of these things. To constantly monitor and adjust their behaviour...

Surely the whole world is wondering where on earth last March went and how we got to this March somehow? It was March last year that COVID swallowed most of the world as we know it whole and somehow we’ve ended up here, one year later, and still a bit confused. Strange times, huh? Anyway I feel like I haven’t written on here in ages (okay, just a few days, but still) and I wanted to write a little update so that maybe in a decade or two I can read back and think, “wow, I somehow actually survived those early years,” while I’m drinking cocktails and getting a full night’s sleep and not vacuuming twice a day. So, onto the things! Most importantly , cakes . We will have a two year old soon! We can’t quite believe it! And we have challenged ourselves to make her a Bluey birthday cake! And I can’t quite believe that either! My husband is the one heavily pushing the artsy, ambitious, Instagrammable work of art for us to aspire to. Seriously, have a look at #blueycake. Some people are ridicu...

I’m late to this day, I know. I mean, I knew that International Women’s Day was coming up (all thanks to the Bluey family planner hanging in the kitchen; no credit to me), but it didn’t dawn on me that it was today today until I saw others talking about it. This is what happens when you live your life within two different eat-play-(eat-eat)-sleep routines of two small people. Weekdays don’t even register, let alone Important International Days. When is Easter again?  Anyway, today is a day to acknowledge women. To acknowledge how amazing women are and to also acknowledge how much further the world has to go to give women equality. I’m going to keep this brief, because there are countless more articulate words spoken by clever and important people out there to read. I basically just wanted to write a small something for my daughters. So, for my small humans on this International Women’s Day: You both came into this world with a roar. You are both happy and sad and loving and impat...

Sometimes each day feels the same. The feeding, the rocking, the consoling, the carrying. The cleaning, the tantrums, the crying, the yawning. The draining, the depleting, the giving, the when-can-I-please-stop-doing. All of these long days aren’t quite the same though. Because day by day, things are slowly changing. Your babies are slowly growing. Up, up and away, they’re forming strong roots and tilting ever so slightly towards the sun. And away from you, little by little. Each time you wipe away a tear or pick them up or make them a bowl of porridge, they get another building block to make them strong. Every time you have a dance party with them or make their dinosaurs kiss or you head out the door to work each morning, for them, or you buy formula late at night. Every time you thank them for a fossilised leaf or watch them jump off the couch for the hundredth time (make sure you watch) or you pump yet again or sterilise the bottles with blurry eyes.  Each time you let them craw...

My two favourite songs of all time are about what home means. We walked up the aisle to Home by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros on our wedding day and I’ve listened to To Build a Home by The Cinematic Orchestra probably thousands of times. My husband claims that this one is depressing, but I disagree. It’s just a little bit haunting, that’s all, and aside from that it’s marvellously beautiful. Together, we have had lots of different homes. We’ve lived in houses and apartments and flats. We’ve rented, we’ve bought, we did a few short stints of living with family when we were between places. We’ve lived with dogs and friends and a pyromaniac (if you know, you know). We’ve lived in one room and in the city centre and in the suburbs. We’ve been all over the show, really. We’ve raised our daughters in two different homes and now it’s time for our third. A place to stay in for a long time. A place to develop roots and to rest; to not be constantly trying to move forward onto the next ...