(A survival guide for the days you’re done with everyone — including yourself)
Some days you’re that mum — you know, the one in the magazine ad who looks like she’s just stepped out of a Pinterest board.
She’s in a white, linen dress, carrying a smiling toddler who definitely didn’t just lick the dog bowl, while holding a tray of gluten-free muffins with one hand and looking smug about it.
And then there’s… the rest of us.
The ones whose toddlers are currently naked except for a pair of gumboots, eating dry Weet-Bix off the floor, while we Google “can you overdose on kids’ TV theme songs” and seriously consider moving to a cabin in the woods. Alone. With Wi-Fi.
This post is for the mums who are just done. Done with parenting. Done with work. Done with relationships. Done with themselves.
Not in a cute “I’m so over it” Instagram-caption way, but in a deep sigh that could register on the Richter scale kind of way.
If that’s you, congratulations. You’ve unlocked Survival Mode, and I’m about to give you the cheat codes.
“Your medal for today is survival, and survival is enough.”
Over Parenting? Welcome to the Bare Minimum Olympics.
If you’re truly over it, the parenting goals shift. You’re no longer aiming for “best” or “good enough.” You’re aiming for no one injured, minimal property damage, and the occasional vegetable consumed accidentally. The Instagram mums might be busy staging their toddlers in colour-coordinated outfits on matching picnic rugs, but your Olympics look different. Your opening ceremony is stumbling into the lounge room in yesterday’s trackies, waving a sippy cup like it’s a flaming torch, and announcing, “Welcome to the Games, may the odds be ever in your favour.”
Because let’s be honest: when you’re done, done, done with parenting, survival becomes a sport. You’re not here for medals, you’re here for endurance. Can you make it from sunrise to bedtime without crying in the pantry? Can you push the pram through the supermarket while a toddler screams “BUT I WANTED THE BLUE APPLE” without abandoning the trolley in aisle three? Can you find a snack at the bottom of your handbag that’s only mildly stale, and call that a win? That’s parenting at Olympic level.
And the best part? No training required. The Bare Minimum Olympics accepts all competitors. You don’t need stamina, patience, or the ability to make sourdough starters in mason jars. All you need is the willingness to lower the bar until it’s basically a tripping hazard. Dinner isn’t a balanced plate — it’s whatever you can throw together before a meltdown begins. Bedtime isn’t a soothing routine — it’s a hostage negotiation where you give in at the first sign of resistance. And enrichment activities? Ha. If your kid spent an hour pulling wipes out of the packet, congrats, they just completed their fine motor skills training.
And don’t even start on “mindful parenting.” When you’re in Bare Minimum Mode, mindfulness is just remembering which child you left in which room. It’s tuning out the chaos long enough to finish your cold coffee and mutter a half-hearted “good job, buddy” while they stack couch cushions into a death trap. It’s praying that the universe grants you one small mercy — like them being so distracted by the dog that you get to pee in peace. That, my friend, is the pinnacle of parental achievement.
And because no Olympic Games is complete without events, let’s look at the main categories of competition in the Bare Minimum Parenting Games — where creativity, chaos, and survival all score gold.
Event 1: Creative Play (a.k.a. Making Crap Up)
- Hand your toddler a roll of masking tape and call it “a STEM challenge.” Bonus points if they tape themselves to something and can’t follow you into the bathroom.
- Draw a face on your big toe and tell them it’s “Mr. Foot.” Instant entertainment.
Commentator’s Note: Extra points awarded if you can lie on the couch for more than ten minutes while they “discover science.”
Event 2: Meal Times
- Peanut butter straight off the spoon? Protein.
- Dry pasta as a snack? Textural exploration.
- Leftover birthday cake for breakfast? Memory-making.
Commentator’s Note: Judges will not deduct points for serving beige three times a day — in fact, it’s considered a signature move.
Event 3: Educational Content
- Forget flashcards — hand them your phone’s calculator and let them pretend they’re doing “big maths.”
- Give them a colander and call it a “helmet of wisdom.”
- Turn on Bluey and pretend it’s a parenting workshop.
Commentator’s Note: If you can drink a coffee in peace during this event, you’ve officially broken the world record.
Over Work? Time to Gaslight Capitalism.
Work comes in many forms — the emails, the meetings, the never-ending admin. And then there’s the unpaid shift: the housework, the life admin, the 47 snacks you’ve served before noon. When you’re running on fumes, it all blurs into one giant, soul-sucking to-do list that mocks you from the fridge door. Some days you’re not just over it, you’re filing a formal resignation from the entire system.
Forget “leaning in.” Some days you’re leaning out so hard you’ve fallen flat on the couch and can’t get up. The boss wants productivity, the toddler wants blueberries cut into perfect halves, and you just want five minutes without someone calling your name. Capitalism may have invented the hustle, but mums perfected the art of the bare minimum hustle — where survival is success and cutting corners is practically a feminist act.
Because let’s be real: no one claps for mums who scrub baseboards at midnight or alphabetise the pantry. No one hands you a bonus cheque for remembering the dentist appointment and buying more toilet paper in the same week. So why not gaslight the whole system into thinking you’re doing more than you are? Work smarter, not harder. Smarter = doing the least amount possible without catastrophic fallout.
So here it is, your sanctioned permission slip to lower the bar until it’s resting comfortably on the floor. Consider these your official events in the “Work and Chores Decathlon” — guaranteed to keep you just functional enough while secretly conserving your last shred of sanity.
Event 1: Office Version
- Join meetings, camera off, making vague “hmm” noises to imply you’re taking notes.
- Copy and paste the same sentence into three different emails and call it “a day’s work.”
- Reply “Let’s touch base later” with no intention of ever circling back.
Commentator’s Note: Bonus points for looking serious while scrolling memes with your mic “mysteriously” cutting in and out.
Event 2: Home Version
- Dust only the bits guests can see. The rest is “an ecosystem.”
- Fold laundry directly into the baskets it came from. Putting it away is a 2026 problem.
- Cook anything, slap cheese on it, and call it gourmet.
Commentator’s Note: Style points awarded for serving dinner with the same confidence as a MasterChef finalist, even if it’s just nachos made from stale corn chips and whatever was in the freezer.
Event 3: Admin Acrobatics
- Answer “urgent” texts three days later with “Just seeing this!”
- Hide unopened bills under a tea towel — out of sight, out of mind.
- Mark calendar invites as “tentative” and never think of them again.
Commentator’s Note: Extra credit if you can convince yourself procrastination is actually “time batching.”
Over Relationships? (It’s called balance, babe.)
Relationships are beautiful, sure — until you’re living with someone who breathes too loud, chews like they’re auditioning for a wildlife documentary, or asks you where the butter is even though it has always been in the exact same spot since 2015. You can adore your person, be grateful for them, and still fantasise about renting a tiny one-bedroom flat where no one leaves socks in the lounge room.
Because the truth is, when you’re stretched thin, romance starts to look less like candlelit dinners and more like passive-aggressive sighing while emptying the dishwasher. Love languages become survival languages. Forget gifts or physical touch — at this stage, the sexiest thing your partner can do is unload the washing machine without asking where the detergent goes.
It’s not that you don’t appreciate them — you do. You just don’t appreciate them all the time. Sometimes you want to sit together and laugh at memes; other times you want them to vanish into the abyss of Bunnings and not return until you’ve had the house to yourself for two glorious hours. Balance, baby.
So let’s give relationships the Olympic treatment too. Here are the official “Couples Games” events for anyone who loves their partner… but also occasionally wants to throttle them with the TV remote.
Event 1: Communication Gymnastics
- Reply to every “What’s for dinner?” with, “Wouldn’t you like to know, weather boy?”
- When they complain about being tired, shoot back with, “From what? The heavy lifting of existing?”
- Nod sympathetically during long work stories while mentally planning your snack lineup for later.
Commentator’s Note: Difficulty points increase if you maintain eye contact while zoning out completely.
Event 2: Romance Hacks
- Hold hands in Woolies while making them push the trolley. Sexy and efficient.
- Send a flirty text like: “I unloaded the dishwasher without swearing once. Your move.”
- Suggest “date night” that involves both of you sitting silently on your phones in the same room.
Commentator’s Note: Bonus points if the “romantic dinner” is Macca’s eaten in the car so no one has to cook or clean.
Event 3: Petty Triathalon
- Hide the TV remote and watch the chaos unfold.
- Eat the last Tim Tam and leave the empty packet in the fridge.
- When they say, “Did you see where I left my keys?” reply, “Nope,” while sitting directly on them.
Commentator’s Note: Maximum style points awarded for pulling off the innocent face while executing world-class levels of petty.
Over Yourself? Congratulations — you’re now the side character.
Some days it’s not the toddler, the partner, or the never-ending to-do list that breaks you — it’s you. Your own face in the mirror feels like too much. Your own voice annoys you. Your own brain won’t shut up about laundry and dinner and how you once had hobbies before life turned into a 24/7 service industry.
When you’re over yourself, the pep talks don’t land. You don’t want affirmations, you want sedation. You don’t need “self-care routines,” you need “self-abandonment with snacks.” You’re not aiming to thrive, you’re aiming to exist — ideally while horizontal, in stretchy pants, with something salty and something sweet within arm’s reach.
So instead of striving for main character energy, downgrade yourself to the enigmatic side character. Think: the woman who wanders into a scene with messy hair, delivers a cryptic one-liner about the futility of folding fitted sheets, then disappears back into the shadows with a bag of Doritos. Side characters don’t need to sparkle. They just need to survive the plot.
These are your events in the Self-Loathing Pentathlon, where points are awarded not for looking put together but for successfully avoiding mirrors and responsibility in equal measure.
Event 1: Low-Energy Self-Care
- Sit on the shower floor. Pretend you’re in a 90s music video about heartbreak and unpaid bills.
- Wear your “good” pyjamas at 3pm. No one deserves the bad ones.
- Light a candle while doing absolutely nothing else. Boom — ambience achieved.
Commentator’s Note: Extra points if you hum Adele while staring blankly at the tiles.
Event 2: Avoiding Yourself 101
- Narrate your day in a David Attenborough voice to make it seem profound.
- Pretend you’re on a cooking show where the secret ingredient is “minimal effort.”
- Wear sunglasses indoors. You’re now mysterious and blocking out reality.
Commentator’s Note: If you manage to keep the sunnies on while yelling at the toddler, you automatically qualify for nationals.
Event 3: Existential Acrobatics
- Scroll your camera roll and wonder how your baby aged three years in three months.
- Google “symptoms of being tired” instead of just lying down.
- Stare into space so long someone has to check if you’re buffering.
Commentator’s Note: Perfect 10 if you can hold the dead-eyed stare for more than 47 seconds without blinking.
“You’re no longer aiming for best. You’re aiming for no one injured, minimal property damage, and the occasional vegetable consumed accidentally.”
A Day in the Life of the Over It Mum
Every athlete has their training routine. Marathoners run. Swimmers swim. Over It Mums? We survive. Here’s how the daily event schedule looks when you’re competing for the championship title of “Most Done With It.”
6:00am: Wake up to the toddler whisper-screaming “Muuuuum” like they’re auditioning for a horror movie. Briefly consider faking your own death.
6:15am: Make coffee. Forget about it on the bench. Find it cold an hour later. Drink it anyway, because dignity left the building years ago.
7:00am: Breakfast. Toddler screams because the Weet-Bix is too Weet-Bixy. You offer toast. They sob. You cave and give them cake. Parenting win.
8:30am: Get “dressed.” Cleaner pyjamas count. Don’t let Instagram mums tell you otherwise.
10:00am: Bathroom break. Take your phone. Stay in there 27 minutes while pretending you can’t hear “Muuuuum” through the door. This is not neglect; it’s Olympic-level self-preservation.
11:00am: Toddler engages in hand-to-hand combat with the vacuum. Unclear who started it. You referee like a FIFA official: minimal effort, maximum yelling.
12:30pm: Lunch. Everything is beige. Beige chicken, beige crackers, beige banana. Beige is the colour of surrender, and you are its ambassador.
2:00pm: Nap time. For them, not you. You lie down but instead of sleeping, your brain shows you a highlight reel of unpaid bills, 2009 regrets, and whether you should try bangs again.
3:30pm: Micro-nap on the couch. Wake up to find the toddler has “decorated” the dog with texta. The dog now looks like it belongs in a punk band.
5:00pm: Dinner plans: fantasise about MasterChef, settle for reheated nuggets. Present food with the flair of a Michelin chef anyway.
7:00pm: Toddler bedtime. They resist like you’re sending them to prison. You resist resisting. Eventually, you win by sheer boredom tactics.
9:00pm: The house is quiet. You could rest. Instead, you scroll TikTok until your eyes burn, whisper-cry laugh at videos of raccoons stealing food, and fall asleep sideways with the light still on.
Commentator’s Note: World record awarded if you managed all of this without yelling “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD” at least once.
The Permission Slip (Closing Ceremony Edition)
Here it is, officially sanctioned by the Bare Minimum Olympics Committee (me, myself, and I):
You do not need to fix everything today. You do not need to sparkle, hustle, glow, or thrive. You are not required to be Pinterest Mum, Productivity Queen, or even fully conscious. Your medal for today is survival, and survival is enough.
You have full permission to:
- Serve cereal for dinner and call it “breakfast innovation.”
- Cancel plans with a single emoji and zero guilt.
- Let the laundry become an art installation titled Domestic Despair in Five Baskets.
- Go to bed at 8pm like the party animal you are.
And if you did absolutely nothing today but keep a small human alive? Congratulations — you’re not just surviving, you’re winning.
So let the metaphorical fireworks crackle, the imaginary crowd cheer, and the anthem of tired mums everywhere play loudly in your soul: “I’m fine, it’s fine, everything’s fine.”
Because this is the closing ceremony, my friend — and you deserve to carry the flag straight to bed, snacks in hand, knowing you made it through.
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