At 9:30 PM, Melbourne’s Yarra River explodes with kiddie fireworks - a dazzling performance for an audience that will be drooling on their pillows by ten. And here I am, Iris Obscura, once Queen of the Midnight That Was, now demoted to bedtime sheriff in the tragicomedy of domesticity. From high heels to house slippers - oh, the indignity. But don’t worry, I’ll glam it up for you. That’s my specialty.

Once upon a time (five years ago, but who’s counting?), New Year’s Eve wasn’t about bedtime negotiations. Midnight was a muse, a lover, a dare. Melbourne was my playground, and I was a walking exclamation mark in stilettos, chasing laughter and bad decisions until the sun joined the party. Back then, I wasn’t some mum alter ego folding laundry and dreaming about financial stability. No, I was a chaos artist.

Let’s revisit the glory days, shall we? Frankfurt, where the bars reeked of leather and spiced wine, and my feet begged for mercy as I danced like a woman possessed. Paris, where decadence wasn’t optional - it was religion. And Melbourne? Darling, you were my masterpiece. Chandon flowed like gossip, and dawn was just another cocktail to savor. I was a muse, a flirtation, a wildfire, untamed and unapologetic.

And then life decided to spice things up. Enter my child - my pint-sized dictator who demands attention like a diva refusing to perform without her green M&Ms. She doesn’t let me rest, doesn’t let me think. Her laugh - raw, wild, infuriatingly joyous - cuts through my nostalgia like a buzzsaw. It’s suffocating, sure, but it’s also grounding. Annoying how those two often go hand in hand.

Oh, and let’s not forget cancer. Yes, the universe decided that my life needed a tragic subplot. My melodramatic mum-self calls it a wake-up call, a chance to redefine. Artist. Mother. Wife. Architect. Finder of immortality in fleeting moments and Mars in backyard dirt. It all sounds terribly poetic, doesn’t it? But let’s be real: she’s just trying to keep her coffee warm while her kid demands another story about dinosaurs’ literary shortcomings.

And even as I write this, she appears. My tiny firecracker, her hands full of play-clay, proudly presenting a plate of "food" that looks like a Picasso painting of lunch. "For you, Mummy!" she exclaims, and just like that, my grand universe collapses under the weight of plastic creativity and sticky-fingered love. Immortality-seeking? Halted. Mars-dreaming? Paused. Quantum uncertainty? Replaced by a very certain need to pretend-eat whatever masterpiece she’s cooked up. The world of high imagining crumbles, and all that’s left is her grin and the sound of her laugh as she insists I take a big, big bite.

So, what’s my big project for this year, aside from surviving, staying afloat, and hoping to achieve the elusive beast known as financial stability? 

It’s right here. These words. Reaching out through the tiny cracks of time, gasping for air between playtime and bedtime, between existential dread and too-cold coffee. Writing is my tether to myself, to the world beyond bedtime stories and laundry piles. It’s my defiance, my rebellion against the universe’s many curveballs.

“Immortality?” I scoff, rolling my metaphorical eyes. “Darling, you can’t even remember to defrost the chicken. Let’s aim for something achievable, like finding matching socks.” And yet, even in my snark, I can’t help but admire the Me That Is. Stumbling through the absurdity of life with just enough grace to keep it entertaining.

But of course, writing isn’t some magical escape into a serene world of clarity. Once again, as I type these words, the sound of tiny feet interrupts my flow. "Mummy, look!" she yells, brandishing another lump of play-clay, this one molded into what I can only assume is a giraffe. "Isn’t it beautiful?" And it is, in its own abstract, alien way. I offer her the requisite praise, because let’s face it: no cosmic resolution is as immediate as making her beam with pride.

When I look at her, I sometimes wonder what she sees in me. Does she sense the exhaustion behind the smiles? Does she know the quiet desperation that fuels my late-night scribbling? Probably not. To her, I’m just one of her Mummies, half the ultimate audience for her endless creativity, the fixer of boo-boos, the giver of cuddles. And honestly? That’s not a bad gig.

But I miss the other me - sometimes. The Iris who danced until dawn, who traded winks with strangers across crowded bars, who felt infinite. I miss the me who wasn’t afraid to dream big, to reach for the stars, to imagine a life beyond the mundane. And maybe that’s what this year is about: finding a way to merge those two selves. To be both the chaotic muse and the bedtime sheriff, the dreamer and the doer.

The truth is, life isn’t about grand transformations anymore. It’s about finding moments. The ones that shine through the cracks, that remind you of who you are under the chaos. Like this one, where my wife swoops in to the rescue and plucks the little one away from me so I can finally finish this - whatever this is. I’m pouring my soul into words while balancing a pretend clay plate on my knee. 

So, 2025... Perhaps no big catharsis, just surviving the beautiful mess. Here's to coffee-stained keyboards, bedtime battles lost to a four-year-old, and finding stardust in the mundane. Here’s to the play-clay giraffes, the late-night scribbles, and the constant reminder that life’s messiness is what makes it beautiful. Because if the universe has a plan, it’s clearly on a bender, and I’m here to laugh at its drunken choreography. Cheers, darling. Try not to embarrass us too much.

And if I stumble - as I inevitably will - I’ll do it with style. Because surviving isn’t just about grit; it’s about flair, about turning the ordinary into something worth remembering. Even if it’s just a play-clay plate and a cold cup of coffee.

Iris Diaries: Play-Clay Dreaming

2025 Survival Guide by Iris Obscura

At 9:30 PM, Melbourne’s Yarra River explodes with kiddie fireworks - a dazzling performance for an audience that will be drooling on their pillows by ten. And here I am, Iris Obscura, once Queen of the Midnight That Was, now demoted to bedtime sheriff in the tragicomedy of domesticity. From high heels to house slippers - oh, the indignity. But don’t worry, I’ll glam it up for you. That’s my specialty.



Iris Diaries: Play-Clay Dreaming

2025 Survival Guide by Iris Obscura

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Iris Diaries: Play-Clay Dreaming

2025 Survival Guide by Iris Obscura

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Iris Obscura

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Those Pink Flats

This is an Exclusive Story for supporters of Iris Obscura