Some days I feel like a good mum. Some days I hide in the bathroom.

This is for the mums doing their best and still needing a minute.

Some days I feel like a good mum.
I make decent meals. I respond calmly. I say the right things at the right time. I feel patient, present, and almost… capable.
And then there are days when I hide in the bathroom.
Not for long. Just long enough to breathe. Or scroll. Or stare at the wall and remember who I was before someone needed a snack while I was already holding a snack.

Both of these days count.

The “good mum” days don’t cancel out the hard ones, and the hard ones don’t erase the love. Motherhood isn’t a highlight reel — it’s a constant swing between I’ve got this and please nobody speak to me for thirty seconds.

Some days I handle things beautifully.
Some days I raise my voice and feel awful about it later.
Some days I meet everyone’s needs.
Some days I barely meet my own.

And if you’re parenting children who are all different — in age, needs, energy, emotions — the mental load can feel relentless. You’re constantly adjusting, anticipating, translating one child’s needs into another’s reality while trying not to unravel in the middle.
It’s exhausting.

Hiding in the bathroom doesn’t mean you’re failing. Sometimes it means you’re regulating. Resetting. Choosing to step away so you don’t lose it in front of tiny humans who are also still learning how to exist.

Some days survival is the win.

If today wasn’t your best — that doesn’t define you.
If today was just okay — that still counts.
If today felt heavy — you’re not weak, you’re human.
You don’t need to be the “good mum” every day. You just need to keep showing up — even imperfectly.

And if you’re reading this from the bathroom…
Solidarity. 🧻

Thanks for being here.
If this post felt familiar, you’re not alone — and you’re not failing.
You’re doing better than you think. 💚

What Recovery Actually Looks Like (For Us)

Recovery doesn’t arrive all at once here. It tiptoes in quietly.

It looks like drinks before food.
It looks like tablets before conversation.
It looks like bickering returning before appetites do.

Theo hasn’t been sick, but that doesn’t mean he feels “better” yet. His body might be ready, but his nervous system is still catching up.

There’s pressure — mostly unspoken — to get back to normal quickly. To eat properly. To bounce back. But autistic recovery doesn’t follow a neat timeline.

Some days, progress is a full meal.
Some days, it’s a few sips and a cuddle.
And both count.

Right now, recovery looks like patience. Like trust. Like reminding myself that forcing food won’t make him feel safer — time will.

If you’re here too, waiting for the appetite to return, you’re not doing it wrong. You’re just doing it gently.

You’re doing better than you think. 💚

When Illness Meets Autism: Supporting an Autistic Child Through Food Refusal

Some days with Theo are hard even when everything is going right. Add illness into the mix, and everything feels heavier.

Theo isn’t great with food on the best of days — something that’s common for many autistic children with sensory sensitivities. He has safe foods, familiar foods, and very clear limits. But when he starts to feel unwell, even the smallest gag can be enough to make food and drink feel unsafe.
And that’s scary.

Tuesday morning started with the signs I’ve learned to trust. Theo struggled with his porridge and just didn’t seem himself, so I kept him home from school.

He wasn’t interested in yogurts.
This is a child who would happily eat yogurts for every meal forever.

He wasn’t interested in his tablet.
Another huge red flag.

Other than me gently waking him through the day to offer drinks or food, he slept. His body was clearly fighting something.

In the early hours of Wednesday, he was sick.
While the sickness passed, the fear didn’t.

For Theo, being sick makes food feel unsafe. Even once his body starts to recover, his brain remembers the discomfort. That association lingers, and food becomes something to avoid rather than something that helps.

He hasn’t been sick since — but we’re still in the food battle phase.

I’ve managed to get him drinking.
Small sips. Small victories.
He’s back on his tablet.
He’s bickering with Zach again, which in this house is basically a recovery milestone.

But food is still hard.

For many parents of autistic children struggling with eating when ill, this stage is familiar — the illness has passed, but the anxiety around food hasn’t. Illness can heighten sensory sensitivities, disrupt routines, and make unfamiliar body sensations overwhelming.

This isn’t stubbornness or refusal.
It’s protection.

Theo doesn’t always understand what’s happening in his body. He can’t always tell me what hurts or feels wrong, even with Grid, PECS, and Makaton available to him. Sometimes there just aren’t words — or symbols — big enough.

I wish I could take it away.
I wish I could make him better instantly.
But I can’t.

So instead, I sit with him.
I offer without pressure.
I celebrate drinks over meals.

I remind myself that recovery doesn’t look linear — especially for autistic children.

Supporting an autistic child through illness often looks very different to what people expect, and that’s okay.

And if you’re in this space too — staring at untouched food, counting sips, worrying quietly — you’re not alone.

You’re doing better than you think. 💚

This post reflects our personal experience. Every autistic child is different, and what works for one may not work for another.

A Week in the Life

Some weeks are loud.
Some are muddy.
Some are quieter than expected.
This one was a mix of all three.

Monday
We started the week with a Mammasocialco talk & walk, followed by soft play at Kids Cove. Fresh air, movement, and small humans burning off energy — a solid way to ease into the week.

Tuesday
Stormy weather flooded a lot of the local roads, so plans were cancelled and we had an unexpected day at home.
Theo was off school and — somehow — he and Zach played together nicely on and off throughout the day. Fewer fights, more calm moments. Absolute dream behaviour. The kind you don’t question in case you jinx it.

Wednesday
We went out for breakfast after a slight change of plans when a friend couldn’t meet. Nothing fancy — just getting out and eating food I didn’t have to make.
In the afternoon, we did messy play at home: the worm dig. Chocolate “mud”, gummy worms, marshmallow rocks, and a toddler testing boundaries (and textures).

Thursday
Play Wild in the morning.
It was wet, but that didn’t stop the Zach whirlwind. Water, mud, sand, cars — full sensory chaos. Wet sleeves, muddy hands, and zero regrets.

Friday
A dog walk that turned into a boggy, stuck-in-the-mud downpour. One of those walks where you’re committed whether you like it or not.
We came home soaked, had lunch, and followed it up with cuddles — which honestly felt earned.

Saturday
A slow morning at home. Zach playing with cars and his “pony”, mixed with dance time courtesy of big brother John. Music on, movement happening, chaos but the good kind.

Sunday
A quieter one. Theo went to the cinema with his dad, and I had some time to myself. I did some doodling in my bullet journal — nothing productive, just peaceful.

No big milestones.
No perfect routines.
Just a real week, lived.

If you needed the reminder today — you’re doing better than you think. 💚

Play Time with Zach: Worm Dig 🪱

Today’s activity was messy play — or at least, that was the plan.
Chocolate angel delight mud, gummy worms, and marshmallow rocks. A full worm dig setup.
Zach surprised me.
Normally he’s straight in, hands first, no hesitation. But this time he paused. Watched. Thought about it. That’s new for my whirlwind.
Once he realised the “mud” tasted fun, he was all in — eating far more of it than I expected, carefully avoiding the worms at first. But curiosity eventually won, and before he got fed up, he was grabbing and squeezing them too.
We didn’t get as messy as I thought we would.
But we explored. We laughed. And we followed his pace.
And sometimes, that’s more important than the mess.

You’re doing better than you think. 💚

25 Boxes and 465 Reasons Why I Can’t Let Go

We’re moving house soon. Hopefully.

Naturally, I thought I’d get a head start. I’d be organised. I’d be ruthless.
I started with the books.

Two shelving units later, I’m sitting in a cardboard fortress of 25 boxes.
The tally so far:
465 books packed
20 books to rehome (and honestly, I whispered “sorry” to every single one of them)
3 more units still staring at me, mocking my lack of tape
(just in the bedroom — don’t ask how many book piles exist elsewhere)

People ask why I don’t just get a Kindle.
(Funnily enough, I have one — and it’s just as full of books, both read and TBR. There are simply too many stories I still need to read.)
They ask if I’ve actually read them all.
They ask why I’m lugging 400+ heavy paper worlds from one house to another when I could just… not.

But here’s the thing: these aren’t just pages.
They’re the places I went when I was nap-trapped.
They’re the quiet moments I carved out between school runs and housework.
They’re where I escaped when the “mum” reality got a bit too loud.

So far, I’ve packed 465 books — and yes, I’m aiming for library status of at least 1000. 🙈

Some people collect shoes.
Some people collect vintage cars.
I collect paper-and-ink proof that I am more than just a person who wipes noses and finds lost socks.

So I’ll pack the boxes.

I’ll probably ruin my back lifting them.
And when we get to the new house, the books will be the first things to come out.

Because a house isn’t a home until all 465 friends are back on their shelves.

Thanks for being here.
If this post felt familiar, you’re not alone — and you’re not failing.
You’re doing better than you think. 💚

I don’t have clear answers, but I have a lot to say

I wasn’t planning to start a blog.

But here I am — because my brain is loud, motherhood is messy, and keeping all these thoughts inside was starting to feel heavier than letting them out.

I love my kids fiercely. I also feel overwhelmed, touched out, guilty, proud, exhausted, and occasionally like I might scream into a pillow just to reset my nervous system. Sometimes all in the same hour.

Some days I feel like I’m getting this right.
Some days I feel like I’m absolutely not.
Most days live somewhere in between, where nothing is catastrophic but nothing is calm either.

Motherhood doesn’t come with clear answers — just a lot of second-guessing, emotional whiplash, and wondering if everyone else is coping better than you are. (They’re not, by the way. They’re just quieter about it.)

Mummies Rambles isn’t here to fix anything or offer perfect advice. This is a space for honest thoughts, messy feelings, small wins, and the things we don’t always say out loud because we’re too busy keeping everyone else afloat.

I’m writing from the middle of it. Not the healed version. Not the expert. Just a mum thinking out loud and hoping that somewhere out there, another mum reads this and feels a little less alone.

I don’t have clear answers.
But I do have a lot to say.
And I’m done pretending that’s not enough. 💚

Thanks for being here.
If this post felt familiar, you’re not alone — and you’re not failing.
You’re doing better than you think. 💚