A Throwback Post.

Throwback post to two years ago when the Girl Child drew me a picture of her birth scene. I’m saying “is it supposed to hurt?”, Daddy is beaming, the Boy Child is screaming “where is she?” while the midwife calmly says “don’t worry, here she is!”.

And out comes the Girl Child, smiling like a Japanese anime.

Yep, pretty much how I remember it all going down. 😂😂

I especially love how she depicted the Midwife as the voice of reason (she absolutely was).

This was around the same age that she started making her Barbie dolls have homebirths, and waterbirths, and roadside births in the Barbie camper, with the very occasional Caesarean that the (female) doctor had to get called away from playing golf to get to. 😂

What we normalise is what they learn.

This kid knows birth.

#getamidwife #primarymidwiferyforthewin #ourkidsareourfuture

Thanks for the memory, Facebook.

Big love,



Odd socks.

This past week or so, I’ve been noticing a distinct increase in the amount of odd socks in the wash.

I’ve been searching behind the washing machine, in the tumble dryer, and behind all the washing baskets, to no avail.

I’ve rummaged through our sock drawers, and our undie drawers, and I even started blaming Unappreciative Cat for stealing them off the clothes airer and hiding them.

And then, this morning, I discover that the Girl Child has quite the obsession with creating creepy little E.T. dolls out of her toys, and that she – not the cat – is the sock thief.

Mystery solved.

Sorry, cat.

If you find you’re missing socks at your place, take my advice and check your kid’s rooms. I can only hope the results are as entertaining and random as mine were.

Big love,


6 Months.

Today marks 6 months since we said goodbye to our Pa.

6 months, that seem to have passed in the blink of an eye, yet with long and slow days where the grief, at times, took our breath away.

6 months of holding each other up, and sitting with the feelings, and allowing life to carry us forward, as we knew it had to do.

6 months of feeling so lucky, and heartbroken, and loved, and internally shredded, all at once.

6 months of missing him, every day, in different ways.

This whole experience has been a bittersweet learning curve for me in so many ways. As my entire world now sits tilted on a different axis, I’ve discovered myself emerging from grief’s depths (one, slow step at a time) with a heightened sense of clarity and perspective.

And it’s all about Time.

We can’t get it back, no matter how much we earn, how much we own, or how successful we are.

We can’t stop it moving forward, and we can’t control it as it slips past us, day by day.

However, we CAN choose how we spend it.

For me, this past six months has taught me that I need to invest my time wisely, where it matters most: with my family. As someone who has always over-booked, over-scheduled, over-structured everything, this has been quite the “lightbulb moment”.

This type-A over-achiever has had an epiphany: my time matters.

It matters, because the little things are big things.

It matters, because in the pursuit of big things, sometimes, I’ve allowed the little things to pass me by.

It matters, because once a moment is gone, it’s gone (the permanence of this only really struck me fully on this day 6 months ago).

It matters, because the memories we create are the only things that can buoy us through tsunamis of grief, when a loved one’s time is up.

Thus, one could say my priorities have shifted somewhat.

These days, if an event means missing out on a cuppa with my Nanna, well sorry, but I’m saying no. If I have to turn down an extra shift to spend a day at the beach with my babies, then that’s exactly what’s going to be happening. If I need to re-shuffle the calendar, and ignore the laundry pile entirely to spend a day with Hot Husband, guess what? That’s what I’m doing.

Because 6 months ago, I realised, that when all is said and done, all we have that really matters, is each other.

Everything else is superfluous, and replaceable, and I know most of us would trade it all in for just one more day with a loved one, passed.

Love your dear ones, as much as you can, every day.

Your time matters.

Big love,


On International Women’s Day…

On International Women’s Day, I’m genuinely thankful for so many opportunities that have been afforded to me by the women who came before me.

I can vote.

I can work.

I have control over my reproductive choices.

I have access to my own money.

I can make my own choices.

My destiny in life is not simply to bear children and keep them all alive, however if I wanted to, I could make that choice.

Today’s conditions are markedly better for women than they were in the past, and it is my hope that as my children grow, they will become people who respect and value those around them based on who that person is, not the gender, race, religion or sexual preference.

This is the environment that Hot Husband and I raise them in, and I’m so thankful that he models so clearly to our kids how to be a loving and supportive partner.

I hope that my daughter can enter a workforce where she is given the same opportunities as her male counterparts, and I hope both of my children will stand up loud and proud to squash old school perceptions of gender roles, and to stamp out bigotry and prejudice.

Although society has come a long way, we aren’t there yet, and there are so many women who don’t experience the freedoms I do. I’m not naive enough to think that because gendered discrimination and blatant sexism has never happened to me, then it doesn’t happen. It does, and International Women’s Day presents a platform to keep these discussions open, as they should be.

Happy International Women’s Day.

Big love,


*image from Fairfax media.

Just like that, the truth came out.

*warning: not a post for kiddies to read.

This week, Hot Husband and I were responsible for inadvertently breaking the Boy Child’s heart.

After Hot Husband accidentally referred to a Christmas present from Santa as having been given by us, the Boy Child received the terrible truth, in all its horrific glory.

“Aha!!” he declared, somewhat triumphantly. “That present was from Santa, not you! If you said it was from you, then YOU must be Santa! I knew it!”

I think, despite his crowing tone, that he was hoping that we’d reassure him otherwise; that of course Santa was real, and that daddy was just being silly.

But as we looked at each other, and he read our faces, he gathered the truth before we had a chance to speak.

“Oh. So, he’s not real? It really WAS you?”

And his eyes filled with tears, and I could see realisation after realisation hit him like metaphorical bullets to the heart.

“What about the cookies?”

“Yeah, that was us mate.”

“And the footprints?”

“Us too, buddy.”

“Well where are my letters?”

“In mum’s special box, sweetheart. I’ve kept them all.”

And he paused, as the reality sunk in, and took a couple of deep breaths, as we explained how wonderful it has been creating such magic for him, and how he could now be involved in creating that magic for the little ones.

“I suppose I was lucky to have thought he was real for eleven years.”

And then, another thought struck him.

“Wait…What about the tooth fairy? She only came last night. Or…..are you HER too? And the Easter Bunny…are you ALL of them?? Really?? Oh God.”

And then, he wept.

And my heart broke, along with his, as I rocked him, and told him how sorry I was that he felt so disappointed by this revelation.

I suppose, I had thought by eleven years old, someone at school might have dropped the bomb.

They hadn’t.

I thought maybe he had been stringing us along with his belief.

He wasn’t.

I thought maybe he would have started to question how all of that magic was possible.

He hadn’t.

He simply believed.

I could take pride in the fact that we must have been awfully convincing storytellers for the stories to stick for so long.

But truth be told, I feel so damn guilty about the whole thing.

We struggled with the idea of introducing Santa as a character when he was really little, for this exact reason. I never wanted to betray his trust, or see that look of hurt realisation on his face. Not ever.

But it’s done and dusted, and in the days that have followed, I’ve got to say, he’s recovered better than I have. He’s started giving me a sneaky wink whenever the Girl Child mentions the Easter Bunny. And he’s next level excited about choosing his own Christmas presents (although he’s insisting that we still write the tags from Santa, in case the little ones are around).

It’s a rite of passage that was inevitably a bit painful, yet he’s come out on the other side oddly mature.

The combination of guilt, grief, gratitude and pride that fills my chest when I think about it, is one that I can’t adequately describe.

This parenting gig, well, it’s quite the rollercoaster.

See ya later, Santa. Ciao, Tooth Fairy. Bye for now, Easter Bunny. You’re leaving in your wake a Boy Child who is transitioning into a young man, more quickly than I can keep up with. And as much as it makes my heart burst, there’s no denying the magic in that.

Big love,


Shift Work: a Blessing and a Curse.

This weekend, I find myself in the lovely (but rare) situation of having both days off work.

Because nursing and midwifery is a 24 hour service, 7 days a week, it stands to reason that I, and my colleagues, find ourselves working a lot of weekends, which I usually don’t mind too much.

But my goodness, it IS lovely to have a whole weekend off.

After working night shifts during the week, and knowing I have another week of nights ahead, it is bloody glorious to know that for these two days, I can just sit in the sunshine, drinking tea and patting the dogs, and I don’t need to be anywhere, or doing anything. The kids are chilling out at home, Hot Husband is reading a book, and we are all just…..being.

It’s great.

Now you guys know, I really love my job. I could rave about how much I love it until the cows come home, and it still wouldn’t be adequate to describe just how much I love it.

Despite this, no matter how much I love the actual work, shift work is one of those double edged swords, in many ways.

On the plus side (because I am an eternal optimist), because there are three potential shifts to work on any given day, it makes the work-life balance a bit more achievable with kids, because most of the time, it’s more flexible than jobs where the days are a rigid 9am-5pm. I can fit a remarkable amount of stuff into the morning before starting an afternoon shift, and if I’m on an early shift, I can be there for my kid’s after school sports and events, which is great. If I’m working nights, I can be there to tuck my kids into bed before I leave for the night, and I’m getting home as they get up, with plenty of time to pack their lunches and get them ready for school. Lots of the working parents I know choose to work nights, for the simple fact that there is less overall impact for their families than if they are working days.

However, as all the literature tells us, shift work is hellishly bad for our bodies. There’s a reason why shift-workers are constantly asking what day it is. It’s because our body clocks are absolutely destroyed. Last week, I was eating pringles at 3am as I sat and wrote progress notes. Today I’m drinking coffee at 12pm on a day off. Next week, I’ll be sleeping all day with ear plugs in, eating breakfast at dinner time, and the week after that, I’ll be working a delightful combination of arvo and early shifts, where I’ll be getting home at 10pm, only to start work again at 7am the next day. You’ll be hard pressed to find a shift-worker who doesn’t get genuinely excited when they’re on holidays and they resume normal bowel habits. Literally every bodily function gets a bit messed up by shift work.

We all know it’s a part of the role, and we don’t begrudge it. But, it’s tiring!

Where I work, we are given the chance to request our rosters as much as possible, to lessen the impact of the crazy shifts a bit. However, the nature of our work is all-systems-go, pretty much all the time, and we invest heavily in the care we provide; emotionally, physically and mentally. The potential for burn out is ever-present, and as a profession, we are notoriously bad at practicing what we preach, in terms of self-care.

We work extra shifts to help our colleagues.

We work longer hours to help our patients.

We select weird shift combinations to help our families.

And sometimes, in all of that helping of others, we forget to help ourselves.

I have many, many colleagues, who are, quite frankly, exhausted. They’re giving their best to everyone around them, and finding themselves at the bottom of the pile, time and time again. As carers by nature, it feels impossible to stop.

After experiencing a couple of months of pretty rubbish health, triggered by fatigue and crappy immunity, I’ve been reminded of the incredible importance of practicing good self care around the work I do. Wearing that badge of busy-ness, like some kind of medal, has lost it’s sheen. Saying yes to every request, accepting every extra shift, attending every social event. It’s just not a sustainable model.


While shift work is a non-negotiable requirement in my career, I’m realising that the way I live my life around it needs be modified to support me, which in turn enables me to support others, including Hot Husband and the juniors.

Less yes.

Less filling the gaps in the calendar with more stuff.

Recognising that being busy isn’t the same as being productive, and that being productive isn’t necessarily the golden ticket to happiness.

On days like today, I’ve got the chance to re-align my system somewhat, before jumping back into the thick of it, and it makes me appreciate the true value of the down time. I’m eating food at normal times, sitting down when I get tired, and I will be going to bed at a normal hour.

While I may not be “doing” much, I’m enjoying the sunshine, and the peace, and the simplicity of a lazy Saturday.

Here’s to weekends off, and bloody good self-care strategies in amidst the chaos of shift-work.

It’s worth it, because we are worth it.

Big love,


A gratitude post.

This week, my little blog of ramblings gained it’s 300th Facebook liker.

Quite frankly, I’m blown away.

As much as I enjoy writing (and in fact, find it incredibly cathartic and therapeutic) when I started writing all of this stuff down in October last year, I was pretty sure I’d be creating my own little echo chamber that most likely only my dad, and maybe Hot Husband would follow. My intention was to process my thoughts in a written form, and maybe find a few people that could relate.

As the months have gone by, I’ve been so pleasantly surprised to find that, despite my doubts, all of you wonderful people have jumped on board, offering so much encouragement with your feedback.

Thank you so, SO much for your support. Thank you for liking, thank you for sharing, and thank you for your comments and feedback.

I’m so humbled.

Thank you.

Big love,