Terms & Conditions

On bedtime negotiations, homemade gelato, and toddlers outgrowing your day.

Jul 12, 2026

We’re currently in our holding-us-emotionally-captive-at-bedtime era.

This week, I realised we might not be the only ones being held hostage.

Terms & Conditions

What started as a sweet ritual before bed has turned into a full-blown hostage negotiation. Mini-Us negotiates kisses and hugs: two kisses, one kiss, tiny hugs, big hugs, hand kisses, forehead kisses, papa kisses, mama kisses, bunny kisses.

The full affection menu.

At first, I loved it. Any tenderness voluntarily offered by my not-particularly-clingy toddler feels like winning the lottery. Unfortunately, he discovered leverage.

Quietly, the ritual expanded. First the affection menu, then one more book, one more sip of water, one more song, one more anything. He’s never actually interested in any of those things. He’s interested in remaining conscious. On an average evening, he buys himself another fifty-five minutes.

Eventually we reach what we tell ourselves is the final attempt. Sleep sack zipped. Bunny positioned. Lights off.

We leave.

“Nooo…”

Bunny flies across the room. Water. Mama hug. Papa hug. Another papa hug. Another kiss.

At some point we exchange the look every parent knows.

This is the boundary.

We say goodnight and walk out.

He immediately starts crying. Then, somewhere between the sobbing: “Two… kissessss… please…” Twenty-five seconds. That’s how long our boundary lasts.

I used to be absolutely convinced I’d be a strict parent. Apparently, all it takes to rewrite a firmly held opinion is a two-year-old asking for one more kiss.

We walk back in. Tears everywhere. Shaking shoulders. We hand over the kisses. Papa hug. Mama hug. Another papa hug. He signals that he desperately needs water. Of course we pick him up.

A gigantic burp.

Silence.

He looks at us. We look at him.

He bursts into laughter.

Not a tear left.

We kiss him anyway.

Good Taste

Frozen Assets

Since we’re in Berlin, in our holding-us-emotionally-hostage-at-bedtime era, the gelato comes to us.

Today: 250g full-fat Greek yoghurt + 100ml full-fat canned coconut milk + 100g frozen blueberries + 2–3 tbsp real sugar or honey. Blend very smooth, chill first, then freeze 45–60 minutes. A tablespoon of mascarpone would make it even creamier.

No queue. No €6 scoop. No pants required.

The presentation needs work. Kein Stress.

*In Berlin? Ask me where to get ice cream.

Elevator Mom Diaries

Project Basement

Ting.

The elevator doors open. It’s Friday, and even Mini-Us sighs when the basement button lights up.

My mother-in-law and I decided to declutter it - the basement every family has. Full of furniture from previous apartments, clothes from previous eras, things you can’t throw away but apparently can’t sell either because listing them on eBay feels like a full-time job.

Downstairs I hand him his favourite toy: our backup vacuum cleaner. It buys us seven glorious minutes.

When Mini-Us was a baby, I folded him into my day. Errands. Medical appointments. DIY projects. Lunches. Babies are surprisingly portable. Toddlers start wanting a day of their own.

“I want cookie.”
“I want outside.”

I offer my basement snack box, strategically filled with things that take a long time to eat. Then his scooter with disco wheels. Then another snack. Nothing works.

Halfway through flattening another cardboard box, still mentally searching for ways to distract him, I look at him.

It hits me.

He isn’t asking for better entertainment. He wants a better day.

I used to think bringing him along counted as spending time together. I’m no longer sure those are the same thing.

Ting.

Two days later. Swimming. His favourite broodje kaas. Hokey Pokey ice cream.

The elevator doors open. He’s already running outside.

This time, so am I.