I’m typing this on the sofa with one hand, because my toddler is asleep on my shoulder and my older son, Damian, just shouted from the hallway that he can’t find his left shoe. This is pretty much how every post on our family blog starts—and if you’ve ever watched my YouTube channel, Damians Mum and Family, you already know the soundtrack: giggles, clattering pots, and me mumbling, “Where is my phone again?” Half the time I leave it balancing on the washing-machine lid, the other half it’s buried under a pile of storybooks on the coffee table. Somehow, between the hunting and the hustling, a blog post gets written, a video goes up, and a dream takes one small step forward.
Chasing dreams sounds glamorous until you’re wiping mashed banana off the ceiling or answering an email with alphabet stickers stuck to your elbow. Yet I wouldn’t trade this circus for anything. When I hit upload on a new video or post a late-night reel, I’m not just sharing cute clips; I’m leaving breadcrumbs for other mums who feel overwhelmed and under-caffeinated. I still remember the night I stayed up editing our “First Tooth-Fairy Visit” vlog while Googling “how to remove glitter from hair.” Twenty thousand views later, the comment section filled with parents laughing at the same sparkly disaster, and I realised our chaos was relatable gold.
That tiny win taught me something: motherhood and ambition aren’t enemies; they’re dance partners. One leads, then the other, and sometimes they step on each other’s toes, but the music keeps playing. When Damian asks if he can hold the camera or if baby Ada babbles into the mic, it reminds me that our children are watching us chase purpose. They learn resilience when they see us trying again after technology glitches, and they learn creativity when a cardboard box becomes a camera tripod because the real one is lost in the car boot.
Some afternoons we head outside armed with chalk, bubble wands, and snack cups. Fresh air resets everyone’s moods, including mine. We trace shadows on the driveway, hunt for interesting leaves, and practise counting by jumping from paving stone to paving stone. Later, when I write up the adventure for the site’s outdoor learning section, I sprinkle in findings from the Harvard Center on the Developing Child that explain how nature play boosts executive function skills. Reading the science behind our mud-pie moments feels like getting an academic high five.
Inside the house, our kitchen turns into a laboratory of smells and fractions. We bake banana-oat muffins with Ada perched on the counter, banging a wooden spoon like a drummer. Measuring cups slide into chubby hands, and flour dusts every surface in a snowy layer of delight. These moments feed more than bellies—they feed confidence. When readers ask for the recipe I point them to our smart-kids snack list and smile at the thought that somewhere a family is laughing over the same sticky batter and life lesson in patience.
Of course, there are days when nothing Instagram-worthy is happening. The baby is teething, Damian is testing the acoustics of every frying pan, and my to-do list laughs at me from a crumpled notebook. Those are the afternoons I surrender. I sweep aside deadlines, sink into the carpet, and build a block tower taller than my espresso mug. Play first, strategy later. Usually, inspiration sneaks in during those surrendered hours. I’ll notice a pattern in Damian’s questions—why do blocks fall, why does the tower sway?—and jot ideas for a blog on sensory activities for kids the moment they’re both asleep.
Losing my phone has become an accidental mindfulness practice. Every time it disappears I’m forced to slow down and retrace my steps. Was it beside the diapers? Under the sofa? Next to the half-eaten apple I forgot to finish? The search turns into a gratitude scavenger hunt: I notice the funny doodle Damian stuck on the fridge, the way afternoon sun stripes across Ada’s curls, the smell of stew bubbling for dinner. By the time the phone turns up—often in the laundry basket—I’ve collected pocket-sized memories that would have slipped by if notifications were buzzing in my hand.
Dream-chasing for me looks like scripting videos at 5 a.m. while the kettle hums, then answering collaboration emails between spelling tests and nap-time cuddles. It looks like filming TikTok-style shorts with one arm because the other is steadying Ada on my hip. It looks like forgetting SEO keywords and remembering them in the shower at midnight. The funny part is, the more chaotic the schedule, the clearer the vision becomes. I want to create content that whispers to other mums, “Your dreams still matter,” even when the living-room floor resembles a toy tsunami.
Yet every so often doubt creeps in wearing yesterday’s pyjamas. I’ll compare my modest subscriber count to bigger creators and wonder if I’m shouting into the void. Then Damian bursts into the room waving a homemade award: “Best Mum Filmmaker.” The trophy is a toilet-roll tube wrapped in foil, but it might as well be an Oscar. That reminder of why I do this—so my kids see persistence in action—recharges me more than analytics ever could. I pour that perspective into posts like family health wins, because if all else fails, cheering each other on is never wasted effort.
When you invite the internet into your living room you learn quickly that authenticity trumps aesthetics. Viewers stick around because Ada sneezed on the lens or the dog barked during story time—not despite those mishaps but because of them. They see their own chaos mirrored back and realise we’re all improvising. The same principle shapes my writing style: no bullet lists, no corporate voice, just a running commentary of spills, giggles, and light-bulb moments stitched together with research and hope.
Balancing brand deals with bedtime stories can feel like chocolate chips hidden in broccoli casserole—strange but doable. I partner only with companies aligned with our values: eco-friendly toys, culturally diverse books, toddler-safe paint. If a pitch demands polished perfection I politely decline, because perfection left this household the minute Damian discovered peanut butter. Authenticity isn’t a marketing angle; it’s survival. Recently I shared a reel about thrift-store finds for imaginative play and linked to our screen-free parenting ideas. The comments exploded with mums swapping bargain tips and laughing about the treasures their kids create from recycled junk.
Self-care sneaks into the cracks of the day. Five minutes of stretching while the kettle boils, deep breaths while folding T-shirts, or dancing to old Afrobeats classics with the kids because exercise hidden in fun is the only workout that sticks. On rough days I reread a helpful piece from the Mayo Clinic about parental burnout and remind myself that rest is productive. Sometimes that means ignoring the algorithm and choosing a family nap instead. When we all wake up drool-faced and refreshed, I find myself writing better than any productivity hack promised.
Night-time is when dreams stretch their legs. Once both children tumble into sleep, the living room transforms into a miniature production studio. Soft lamps replace daylight, and the hum of the fridge becomes white noise for focus. I storyboard future videos using sticky notes on the wall, each coloured square representing scenes I’ll film in bite-sized pockets tomorrow. Writing long-form posts like this feels like piecing together those sticky notes, giving each anecdote room to breathe.
Every family has a rhythm. Ours is percussive, lively, sometimes off-beat, always sincere. On Sundays we slow dance into reflection. We revisit the week—what did we learn, what can we improve? Damian might say, “I learned patience while waiting for the muffins to rise.” I might admit, “I’m learning to back up footage before tiny hands press delete.” These reflections often spark posts for the parenting mindset section and remind all of us that growth is a family affair.
People ask how I manage privacy while documenting family life. The secret is boundaries disguised as creativity. I film snippets, never marathons. I show messy rooms but keep certain memories just for us—Damian’s whispered jokes, Ada’s first wobbly steps before dawn. Having offline moments makes the online ones richer. Whenever I’m unsure whether to hit record, I put the camera down and join the moment fully. The story can wait; childhood can’t. Common Sense Media has a great guide on balancing sharing and safeguarding kids online, and I revisit it often.
In the rare minutes I sit with hot coffee, I sketch future dreams: launching an eBook of multicultural bedtime stories, hosting community workshops on creative parenting, maybe even designing a course for new YouTube mums who can’t remember where they left their phones either. I keep these brainstorms in a notebook because digital notes vanish when toddlers strike. The journal lives on a shelf Ada can’t reach—less for secrecy, more for ink survival. The shelf is also where I stash my phone when I remember.
Technology can be both friend and frenemy. I adore editing apps that turn shaky footage into watchable stories, and I love that my phone camera captures milestone moments without bulky equipment. But constant pings threaten sanity. So we created a rule: devices sleep in the kitchen at night. Sometimes I forget and tuck my phone under the pillow, but the rule stands. It teaches the kids that screens serve us, not the other way around. I wrote all about the experiment in our post on healthy digital habits and linked the American Academy of Pediatrics media guidelines for backup.
Community is the secret ingredient that keeps me from burning out. When viewers comment with their own misadventures or fellow bloggers share editing shortcuts, I feel hugged through the screen. We adapt each other’s ideas, tweak recipes, trade sleepy emojis. I’ve met mums on three continents through collabs, and every accent in our Zoom calls reminds me that parenting is a universal language. That shared humanity spills into guest posts too, like the feature we recently hosted from a speech therapist who showed simple ways to boost toddler vocabulary through everyday conversation—perfect for those market days when Ada babbles greetings at every stall.
As I draft these lines, Damian is beside me scribbling a treasure map. He says the X marks “where Mum’s phone usually hides.” We laugh because it’s probably accurate. Ada squeals from her high chair, brandishing a crust of toast like a victory flag. In this warm chaos I realise chasing dreams isn’t a sprint—it’s a relay. Some days I pass the baton to patience, other days to creativity, often to coffee. The important thing is to keep running, phone lost or found, because the finish line is a story we write together.
Saturday mornings might not look like a typical CEO strategy session, but they’re the board meetings of our household. We pile into the stroller and wander the open-air market, hunting for ripe plantains and the freshest ugu leaves. Damian pretends he’s hosting a cooking show, describing each vegetable to an imaginary camera crew, while Ada practices waving at strangers. The market aunties greet us with, “How is YouTube today?” and slip extra peppers into our bag. By the time we walk home, the stroller basket is stuffed with produce and ideas—recipes to film, cultural anecdotes to share, and maybe a new sensory bin plan involving dried beans and colanders. That whole routine blooms into Monday’s post on market math, teaching counting with tomatoes, and links back to our ever-growing indoor fun for kids page for families who can’t visit a market but still want the lesson.
Books weave their own magic into our routine. We read aloud during snack breaks and bedtime, voices switching accents mid-sentence just to see the kids giggle. Stories spark questions about distant planets, brave inventors, and why cats always land on their feet. Those questions flow into craft time—when we built a cardboard rover after reading about Mars, or painted swirls of Van Gogh blues during an impromptu art lesson. For parents seeking easy setups, our kids craft corner is packed with all the no-pressure projects that keep glue-stick chaos contained to a single table.
One topic I rarely see discussed in glossy parenting feeds is money. Not the glamorous brand-deal kind, but the real-life budget juggling that determines which dream gets financed first. We use envelope budgeting and involve Damian by letting him drop coins into jars marked Savings, Giving, and Fun. Watching the jars fill teaches tangible patience. I found a straightforward article on Investopedia about teaching finance to kids and turned it into a posting series on our channel. When viewers shared their own jar systems, I felt the same communal spark that lights up our comment section whenever someone confesses they lost their phone in the freezer again.
Mental wellbeing deserves as much airtime as milestones and meal prep. There were months after Ada’s birth when foggy exhaustion blurred my creative spark. I leaned on resources from NHS Every Mind Matters and joined a local mums’ group on Zoom. Talking openly about postpartum blues felt vulnerable, but it unlocked a wave of supportive messages from subscribers who had silently struggled too. Now we run a standing feature called “Mum’s Check-In” where I share coping tricks—like five-minute journaling or strategic snack stash—and link back to our screen-free parenting hub because sometimes the healthiest break is stepping away from devices entirely.
If you’ve stayed with me through this wandering, phone-losing chronicle, thank you. You are part of a tapestry that stitches together late-night editing sessions, flour-dust explosions, and tiny fingers tapping the keyboard when I’m not looking. I hope you leave with the reminder that it’s okay to miss a call if it means catching a memory, that kids don’t stump dreams—they stretch them, and that somewhere in the cushions your phone will vibrate eventually. Until then, may your coffee be warm, your Wi-Fi strong, and your heart even stronger.
Someday, when the kids are older and the lost-phone stories become family lore, I picture us gathered around the dinner table replaying our favorite vlogs, not for the views but for the memories. Maybe Damian will be directing films, maybe Ada will host her own cooking show, and maybe I will finally keep my phone in one designated spot. Or maybe not—and that uncertainty is half the fun. The beauty of this messy journey is that the plot twists keep it interesting, so I keep pressing record, keep writing, and keep chasing those dreams—even when I have to pause mid-sentence to ask, “Has anyone seen my phone?”
