Cushion Warfare at Harvey Norman

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 recliner like a human trebuchet, while your Rottweiler is at home continuing his self-appointed mission to chew every armrest off the outdoor furniture.

Predictably, this was the second kind.

We only needed two things:

A new screen protector for my iPad (because apparently I draw with the intensity of a mad woman exorcising her emotions through art), and maybe some replacement chairs for the outdoor dining set — the ones Jackson the Rottweiler had lovingly remodelled into “spiky torture thrones for unsuspecting elbows.”

So off we go: me, Westley, Nathaniel. Travis came too, needing AirTags (for the ongoing saga of “Where Are the Keys: A Domestic Thriller”).

We arrive at Harvey Norman. Land of shiny electronics, fragile parental nerves, and floor staff who clearly did not design their displays with children (or gravity) in mind.

Within 0.4 seconds, Nathaniel and Westley vanish beneath the display tables like sugar-fuelled meerkats, weaving between chrome hooks that look custom-designed for blinding toddlers.

I’m trying to stay calm while they’re 'testing' every iPad in sight.

“We’re just looking,” I whisper. Which, in parenting language, means: please, God, let us leave without a lawsuit.

Travis has found himself deep in conversation with the sales rep about Apple AirTags.

He’s perched on a stool, looking far too comfortable.

I know what this means: I’m on my own.

I herd the boys toward furniture. Safer ground, allegedly.

But then they discover the reclining armchairs with massage settings.

Suddenly it’s NASA launch training. Buttons pressed. Legs flailing. “MUM! THIS ONE GOES UP!” echoes across the store.

While they launch themselves into orbit, I wander through the dining sets, pretending I might be able to afford one. They’re beautiful. And criminally expensive.

My heart sinks. Not this month. Probably not next.

I run my hand along an armrest, imagining eating a meal without bracing my spine against half-chewed rattan.

And then, I see them.

A box of cushions marked down from $49 to $5 each. The kind of find that feels like divine intervention. The Universe whispering, “Look, babe, I can’t fix everything, but here’s a small win.”

I grab the box (all the green ones, a perfect match) and drag it triumphantly toward the counter.

That’s when she appears.

Middle-aged Discount Dragon, Guardian of the Sale Section.

She gives me a look that says: How dare you experience joy in my proximity?

“Where did you find those?” she demands.

“Over there,” I smile. “There’s heaps more in the other box.”

“You’re not buying all those, are you?”

“Just these green ones.”

She looks betrayed. I don’t know why. The ugly pink ones I left behind would match her blouse perfectly.

Anyway — back into Harvey Norman’s checkout labyrinth.

I drag the box full of cushions and two giggling children across the entire store.

By now, Travis has re-joined the mission, radiating his trademark “life is an absurd joke” energy. He’s lifting the boys into the box, burying them in cushions, pretending to lose them.

The staff are laughing.

The boys are shrieking.

I’m hovering somewhere between delight and cardiac arrest.

And then they weaponise their Crocs.

The boys turn their Crocs into missiles. Little plastic projectiles launched from the Jack-in-a-Box of holy bargains.

Enter: The Return of the Discount Dragon.

She pretends to stumble over a Croc and, I swear on the ghost of my outdoor furniture, kicks it back at us.

“I nearly tripped! You should watch your children!” she snaps.

“I am,” I say. “They’re in the box.”

Then, because I’m tired, hungry, and possibly possessed, I add:

“Maybe you should watch where you’re walking.”

The room erupts.

Turns out she’s been terrorising the staff all day: asking for quotes, rejecting everything, and generally spreading bad vibes.

And her downfall? A single rogue Croc guarding a box of $5 cushions and two giggling children.

The man at the counter lets us keep the box. The older woman tells me stories about her grandkids. The younger one is wiping tears of laughter from her eyes.

I thank them all for not yelling at us.

We finally make it home.

Chairs still chewed, but spirits restored.

We sit down to eat toasted sandwiches on mismatched seats, surrounded by gloriously green cushions.

And here’s my little take on all that mess…

Some days you master chaos - rearranging deadlines, calming stressed colleagues, predicting disasters six minutes before they happen.

And other days?

Your dog eats furniture, your kids launch Crocs at strangers, and the only thing you successfully manage is… a box.

But in between all that, the finances, the worry, the “please don’t judge me” moments... there are these shining pockets of joy where everyone’s laughing. And you realise:

This is it. This is the good part.

Because the real prize isn’t perfect furniture or peaceful shopping trips. It’s the joy shining through the mess. It’s your kids, in Crocs, giggling from a box of cushions, reminding you that even on your wildest days…

you’re winning where it counts.

Sometimes the messy middle is the story.

Trinity 💚