A morning in my tiny home

The quiet chaos of slow living, motherhood, and avo on toast

Sometimes someone else’s words shake something loose - thanks Kate, for the inspiration.

What My Morning Sounds Like

What my mornings sound like…

Tiny footsteps thud like drumbeats against our timber floor, impossibly loud in the hush before sunrise. I haven’t slept much, again, but then I hear it: "Mama." Her voice is soft, still thick with dreams. She climbs into bed like it’s a mountain she’s conquered, limbs cold from the morning air, cheeks flushed as she presses her face against mine. Suddenly, I’m awake. Not rested, but flooded with purpose.

I wish I could say I’m the kind of mum who wakes before the rest of the house, lighting candles and journaling in silence. But let’s be honest. There’s still some of the old me left in here, the one who clings to the warmth of the doona just a little longer, half hoping the world can wait.

The coffee machine sputters to life on the bench just a few steps away, its hum and hiss a familiar comfort. I sit up slowly. Two out of three kids are already curled around me, warm and wriggly, their hair messy from sleep. My husband hands me my coffee, in my favourite mug and leans over to prop up my pillows like he always does.

Then he draws back the curtains with a soft swish, and just like that, the room shifts.

That sound, so subtle yet so deliberate, tells me to look. To pause. To drink it all in.

The window frames a view I could sketch with my eyes closed: tree-lined creeks threading through the land, familiar hills folding into each other, and the kind of sky that always feels like it's reaching for something. I know every bend, every silhouette, and still, my breath catches every time.

Outside, the silence is thick. No traffic. No neighbours. No hum of suburbia bleeding in. Just the occasional cackle of a kookaburra or the wind catching the gums. Mostly, it’s still. The kind of quiet that wraps around you like a blanket.

Back inside, we whisper about the night. Who slept, who didn’t. What the day might hold. But like most days, we both know it’ll unfold however it wants.

Then Cocomelon breaks the moment.

Its jingle rolls through the house like an alarm clock for chaos. My eldest stumbles out of his room, eyes barely open, limbs still heavy with sleep. He finds his way to our bed, climbs in without a word, and smiles when he sees his baby brother already curled beside me.

The baby’s been there all night, tucked into the crook of my body, his breath warm on my skin. I feel the weight of him, the heat, the tiny sighs. Co-sleeping is messy and cramped and frustrating some nights, but these mornings make it all worth it. All three kids pressed into me. Little hands reaching for warmth. The soft smell of sleep. The closeness. The quiet joy.

And then the shift.

The calm unravels quickly.

Breakfast requests start flying. Scrambled eggs, avo toast, smoothies. The gas stove snaps to life with a sharp click click click whoosh as the burner ignites. The blender screams over the sound of someone yelling for a different spoon. I’m half-spinning between bench and fridge, trying to mash avo while dodging a toddler at my feet.

I glance down and, of course, I’m still in my pyjamas. Hair a mess. No idea how it’s already this loud and this late.

Every morning, I tell myself I’ll get up before them. Just once. I’ll be dressed, coffee hot, maybe even brushed hair. But here we are. Again.

My second coffee’s gone cold on the bench. The baby’s crying and my daughter is eating avo straight out of the bowl before it’s made its way on to toast. There’s juice spilled. And there’s duplos on the table.

And still, I wouldn't change a thing.

Because this? This is what my dreams look like now.

Chaotic. Loud. Messy. Completely perfect.