Family and Child Consultants

  ‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house,  Not a creature was sleeping—not even your spouse.  The stockings were flung in a heap on the floor,  While mum stepped on LEGO (again—yes, it’s sore). The children were bouncing, wild dreams in their heads,  Refusing to listen, refusing their beds.  With visions of presents, they giggled and fought— While Mum wished for silence (just five minutes—she thought). Dad’s in the lounge room, still wrapping a toy,  Discovering, too late, it needs batteries—oh boy!  The scissors are missing, the sticky tape too, And the cat’s in the tinsel, unraveling through. The tree’s looking wonky, the laundry’s still growing.  There’s glitter on couches, and crumbs on the mat,  And someone’s new puppy just scared off the cat. Yet, amidst all the chaos, the laughter, the mess,  The imperfect moments bring memories that bless.  So here’s to the parents, the carers, the crew—  Doing...

  Let’s be honest: every family has that one child who seems to have been possessed by the spirit of chaos the moment the tinsel comes out. If you’re reading this with a half-eaten candy cane stuck to your hair and a child wailing in the background because Santa “wrapped the present wrong,” this one’s for you. The Christmas Brat: A Holiday Tradition It’s a tale as old as time. You prep the perfect Christmas, imagining Instagram-worthy moments—matching pyjamas, cocoa by the tree, angelic children singing carols. Instead, you get a full-scale meltdown because someone else got the blue cup, and now “Christmas is ruined forever.” If you’ve ever spent the big day negotiating with a sugar-fuelled tiny dictator, you’re in good company. Here are a few stories (and tips) to keep you laughing—and sane—when your little one plays the Christmas Grinch. Story #1: The Gift Catastrophe Last year, my nephew received the exact toy he’d begged for… only to burst into tears because it was red, not gre...

To you, the one who feels the empty chair before the meal is even served— As the world around us leans into celebration and togetherness, you may find yourself bracing for a quieter space, a hush where laughter once rang, or a pause where a familiar voice used to fill the room. This year, the table might look the same, but it feels so different. And if you’re reading this, you’re not alone in that ache. Grief has a way of settling in the spaces we wish it wouldn’t—the holidays, the rituals, the moments that feel like they should be whole. When someone is missing, it’s not just their seat that’s empty, but the stories they told, the warmth they brought, the way they shaped the day for everyone around them. Their absence is felt in the quiet, in the clatter of cutlery, in the memories that surface unbidden. It’s okay if you don’t feel festive. It’s okay if you want to speak their name, share their favourite dish, or leave their chair just as it always was. It’s okay if you need a moment ...

  There are few pains deeper than the ache of a child turning away. Whether your son or daughter is seven or forty-seven, the silence and distance can feel unbearable. You remember their laughter, their hand in yours, the way you once fit so easily into their world. Now, there may be only closed doors, unanswered messages, or polite distance that feels like an ocean. As parents, it’s easy to feel lost—grieving what was, and desperate for connection. The heartbreak is real, and it’s okay to admit that it hurts. We wonder: Did I do something wrong? Is this just a phase? Will things ever be the same? The Parent’s Role: Responsibility, Not Blame It’s a difficult truth, and sometimes a controversial one: no matter how old your child becomes, you remain the parent. The responsibility to bridge the gap, to reach out, to try again—these remain with us. It isn’t about taking blame for everything that’s happened. It’s about accepting that the power to model forgiveness, acceptance, and uncon...

To the Partners of My Grown Children, There are moments from their childhood that live in my heart forever—days when the sun was high and my boys were splashing in the pool, laughter ringing out as they raced each other and tried to make the biggest and wildest jops. They spent hours riding their bikes up and down the street, hair wild in the wind, faces flushed with joy, and always a football close by, ready for a kick or a wild game with friends. They were rough and tumble, full of dreams and boundless energy, always chasing the next adventure, always finding new ways to make me smile and often, to worry. And then there is my daughter—never still for a moment, a whirlwind of energy and light. She moved through our home like a spark, impossible to catch, always on the move, always with a new idea or a burst of laughter that made the world feel brighter. She brought a spirit you wouldn’t believe—lifting us all, reminding us to keep up, to see the joy in motion and the beauty in chaos. ...

To Gus’s Mum, Dad, and Grandparents, I write this as a grandmother, my hands shaking, my heart aching for you in ways words will never truly capture. I know what it is to love a child so fiercely that their laughter is the music of your soul and their absence is a silence that screams. To the Grandparents You opened your home—the safe haven, the place of adventure and gentle spoiling—for your precious grandson. The place where little feet patter down hallways, where stories are told, and where the world is meant to be small and safe. Now, every corner of your home echoes with the memory of Gus: his giggle in the sand, his curls shining in the sun, the last time you saw him—so ordinary, so unremarkable, so heartbreakingly final. I can’t imagine the weight you carry. The questions that haunt you: If only I’d watched a moment longer. If only I’d held his hand. If only, if only, if only. The guilt that isn’t yours to bear, but which clings anyway, heavy and relentless. The world will never...

  Parenting is fantastic… wait, let’s be realistic—sometimes it’s bloody awful. Let’s talk about the Under 5’s. I had four. Remember when everyone said, “These days go so quickly, cherish every moment”? I remember thinking (at 2am, 3am, and 4am) that these days would never end. The sleepless nights, the endless washing (oh my god, the washing), toilet training, the isolation, the sticky fingerprints on every surface, and the vague suspicion there’s a load of laundry still lurking somewhere, probably growing its own ecosystem. Then, just as you think you’ve made it through, you hit the junior school years. Suddenly, you’re the P&C mum—endless cake stalls, school fetes, coaching every football team (even though you know nothing about football), and spending what feels like half your life in the car. The washing machine never stops. The parents are complaining, the school assignments keep coming, and you’re just trying to remember if you’ve packed everyone’s lunch and signed the r...