By Sammie Middleton
There’s no alarm in our house. No need for one when you’ve got a toddler with military-grade internal radar
who wakes up every single day at exactly Too Early O’clock.
I don’t get out of bed first — that honour goes to my husband, the designated early riser (bless him). I lay
there half-asleep, listening to the morning soundtrack: the kettle boiling, cereal being poured, and a small
child having a full-blown existential crisis over the TV show picked.
Eventually, I emerge from the bed like a sleep-deprived wombat, already behind on a day that hasn’t
officially started.
Mornings are a team sport. Between coordinating medications and remembering which therapy or
appointment is on today, we somehow make it out the door. We leave at 6:40am – I know right crazy!
Then it’s time for work. I try to act like a professional adult while my brain is still stuck in “don’t forget the
meds” mode. I smile politely at colleagues chatting about weekend brunch or gym routines while I secretly
debate whether I can make a paediatrician appointment, reply to a NDIS planner, and return a missed call
from a therapist or daycare — all on my lunch break.
Another hard truth that comes with this life is the realisation that you may not be able to climb that career
ladder, the one you worked so hard for! You are reduced to pick part time jobs or ones who can offer great
flexibility, and they are a unicorn.
Honestly, work feels easier some days. There’s structure. Nobody cries because their banana snapped in
half. People use complete sentences. No one screams for an unknown reason (although I could categorise
some people to have the same meltdowns).
But the mental load doesn’t stop. I’m constantly juggling therapy plans, funding applications, specialist
letters, daycare notices, and the gnawing guilt of not doing enough — even though I’m doing absolutely
everything I can.
Then comes the post-work shift: dinner, meltdowns, therapy homework, cleaning up a suspiciously sticky
kitchen bench, negotiating with a toddler over bath time like I’m in hostage talks – even harder with a
toddler who is not verbal…..
By the time the house is quiet, I’m too tired to shower, too wired to sleep, and usually eating snacks I hid
from the kids earlier, I spend time researching therapy, support and everything that comes with being a
mum of a child with a disability.
This life isn’t glamorous. It’s messy, chaotic, relentless… and weirdly beautiful. There’s joy in the little
things: a new word, a full night’s sleep (rare), a moment of calm. My children are wild and wonderful and
exhausting and brilliant. And I love them fiercely — even when I fantasise about checking into a quiet hotel
just to sit in silence for 12 hours – or a psych ward.
So, to every working parent out there raising a child with a disability: I see you. I am you. We’re not just
surviving — we’re doing something incredible, even if it feels like a hot mess most days.
And if you made it through the day and remembered most of the appointments, didn’t completely lose it
over the Lego under your foot, and got at least one child to eat a vegetable — you’re doing amazing.
Now go eat the good snacks. You’ve earned them.