clay date

My daughters are my greatest motivators. Even when I’m running on empty, they ignite the spark that keeps me going. My dear friend Hue is pure inspiration. Creative, thoughtful, generous, and optimistic, she lifts everyone around her. With their encouragement and enthusiasm, I find myself capable of more than I ever imagined.

We threw together a clay date for the girls and their school friends. I didn’t think I had the energy, but their excitement made it easy to rally. Hue led the pottery workshop with her usual calm magic, patiently guiding the kids as they shaped pieces worth keeping. Lunch was a tea party spread, served on elegant three-tiered stands with avocado maki sushi, salmon aburi, spring rolls, and egg sandwiches. I loved that these young ones are now old enough to use proper dainty porcelain tea sets.

The afternoon was a mix of quiet concentration and cheerful chaos. Our guests were kind, respectful, bright, well-mannered, and mature, exactly the sort of company every parent hopes their child keeps. I’m so grateful my little ladies have made such genuine friends. 

soft spot

Labubus have been copping a fair bit of hate lately, and while I’m not personally invested, there’s no reason to ridicule other people’s interests. That mix of rarity, the chase and reward is where the real magic of collecting lies. It’s easy to see why so many fall down the rabbit hole. Loving something that others don’t quite understand isn’t strange. It’s human. 

My version of labubus was a group of quirky plush toys. They weren’t popular or expensive, just adorable, small-eyed, big-smiled figurines that I happened to find completely charming. I didn’t mean to adopt them, but one or two turned into a growing little family. No one else really saw what made them special, yet a couple of my friends gifted some to me without any judgement. I kept them for years, simply because they made me happy. 

In my mid twenties, I redecorated my room, decided I’d outgrown soft toys, and donated the lot. 

Not long after I became a mum, those funny little faces returned to me in a wave of nostalgia. I searched online and was surprised to find them, most still new with tags, but one stood out. The hippy chick, soft and familiar, with a black stain on her dress that looked just like the one I remembered. I picked her up from a house only ten minutes from where I grew up. She looked exactly the same. Maybe it wasn’t the one I gave away, but it didn’t matter. It felt like she’d come home.