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When we got there, I recognised it straight away. It was just like Pops’ treehouse. But another one. It must have grown big, too big. And fallen into the water. And now it lives half in the sky and half in the sea. You have to go through two sets of glass doors to get inside. I love sliding doors. Glass ones are my absolute favourite. Two sets is just perfect! It’s an airlock to get inside the treehouse. One after the other. Like the treehouse is checking if you’re allo

This is on me. I named my child after the Dread Pirate Roberts, and then, for reasons I cannot now defend, acted surprised when piracy began manifesting at a cellular level. The first day of 2026, a brand new year bright and shiny ahead of us. We decided to use it well, and go to the beach. Westley saw the ocean and immediately reverted to factory settings. Pirate mode, activated. The beach itself leaned into Westley’s dreams. The cliffs loomed. The waves lapped into caves li

It started, as so many of my days do, with keys. Westley has been obsessed with keys since he was a baby. Not toy keys, not plastic ones. R eal ones. He can always spot a fake. It’s like he can smell power. The car keys. The house keys. Nan’s spare set. If it opens something important, he wants it. I’ve tried everything! Decoys, high shelves, drawers. Nothing works. (Although I have managed to hide a few from myself… permanently.) This morning, we were already running late w

Once upon a time, I was delicate. Polite. Private. The kind of woman who would blush so hard at the word bowel  that it could power a small regional hospital. If a doctor ever asked about my bowel motions, I’d think, What a grotesque and humiliating question to ask another human being. Oh, sweet summer child. How little I knew. Because now? Poo is not just part of my life — it’s a core operational metric. My days begin and end with faecal updates: Has Nathaniel pooed? Has We

Or: the one where my toddler performed a hostile takeover of Sunday School. We’ve been trying to take the kids to church. I thought my little blended family could use some structure. Some moral education. You know… a Sunday morning that doesn’t involve too many pancakes and yelling, “WHO ATE ALL OF THE BACON?” Tandy agreed. So, I put on a floral skirt (cos-playing 'I’ve got my life together'), packed snacks, took a deep breath, and walked in with false hope. We rolled in lik

There are three unavoidable Rules in my life: Rottweilers will steal food with the confidence of unionised burglars. Westley will create chaos with strategy, purpose, and follow-through. And I will assume that because I can figure out absolutely anything out at work, I must be competent everywhere (Spoiler: I am not. ) It’s the home-life equivalent of being the EA who always “figures it out,” and then assuming the same magic will apply outside the office. You walk in thinki

There are two kinds of shopping trips with children. The ones you imagine... peaceful, organised, stepford-wife-esque. You, breezing gracefully through the aisles in a dress, well-mannered children in tow, radiating the serene competence of an Executive Assistant who casually rearranges a 17-person meeting in twelve minutes while remembering that Steve from Finance can’t have gluten. And then there are the ones that end with someone launching themselves out of an electric rec

feat. The Dummy Alliance, Psychological Warfare & The Two-Week Siege

At this point, I think we can safely say we’re locals at the Emergency Department. You know it’s bad when the triage nurse greets your toddler with, “Ahoy there, Captain — what brings you in this time?” This particular adventure began innocently enough: the boys getting dressed up in their Halloween costumes. Westley was a pirate — naturally. Nathaniel was Spider-Man — ready to save the world (or at least the backyard). They looked adorable for about thirty seconds. Then they

or, the one where I woke up to find my dog held hostage by my 2 year old. There are few sounds that can cut through a sleep-deprived mother’s dream state faster than the slam of a car door. Tuesday. 5:10 AM. Too early for consciousness, too late for optimism. I bolt upright. The house is suspiciously quiet — which, as every parent knows, is code for something has gone terribly wrong. I fling open the front door… and freeze. There, in the driveway, is my Rottweiler. Locked ins

(Or: Westley and the Great Backyard Uprising) Friday. 4:30 PM. If one more person says “Happy Friday!” I might spontaneously combust. It’s not happy — it’s triage. Oh, you’ve got a lovely weekend ahead? Nice. Mine’s about survival tactics. I’m already late for a coffee catch-up, guilty for rescheduling again, and supposed to be getting ready for an awards night. You know, one of those events where you’re meant to look like a capable professional, not someone who reheated thei

with a Green Dog and Cancelled Holidays.

Or: How One Small Boy and His Rottweiler Are Slowly Unravelling My Sanity