I’ve been sitting with something since a recent workshop I went to—slow pedagogy. Alison Clark calls it “slow knowledge and the unhurried child,” and honestly, it got me thinking about my own days at home. I walked away questioning how often I rush my toddler, how often I push through a list instead of listening, and how much that pace impacts both of us. Here’s the truth: slowing down family life sounds lovely, but in the reality of motherhood it can feel impossible. And yet—it might just be the one thing that shifts how our children experience their days…and how we experience motherhood.
The Struggle to Get Out the Door
My toddler can find any excuse not to get ready. It doesn’t matter if it’s kindy, the playground, or even somewhere fun—the act of getting out the door is the battle. Socks suddenly feel wrong. A toy absolutely must come along. Shoes become the most fascinating objects on Earth. Instead of seeing this as defiance, I’ve started reframing it as part of the process. We use a “jungle animals” game: every time he completes a step (shoes on, teeth brushed, bag ready), he gets to add an animal to a jungle scene waiting by the door. It turns our routine into play and gives him a sense of control. And when we get home in the evening, that jungle is waiting—ready to be explored again.
As an early childhood teacher, I know routines provide children with security, but I’ve also seen how rushing undermines that security. Slow pedagogy reminds us to value the process over the result, and to notice how pace shapes a child’s emotions. It’s a reminder I wish I’d heard earlier, back when I was drowning in the overwhelm of motherhood.
Drop-Off Goodbyes
Here’s another moment where I’m learning to lean into slowing down family life. At kindy drop-off, my toddler doesn’t really want a rushed goodbye. Most mornings, what he wants is me. To play. To stretch out the moment before separation. So now, I offer choices: How do you want to say goodbye today? A high five through the window, a wave, or a hug? And I explain, gently: I need to go now—it takes me ten minutes to get to work and I have to leave. He may not love it, but he feels heard. And I walk away with a little less guilt, knowing we slowed down just enough to connect.
In teaching, we call these scaffolds—small supports that ease big transitions. It’s the same at home. We don’t always get the “perfect” goodbye, but a goodbye that’s ours feels far better than rushing off in tears. And if you’ve ever wondered whether it really gets easier with time, you’ll know why these micro-moments matter.
Coming Home to Calm
I’ve noticed how much the first spaces we enter after a long day—our living room, hallway, bathroom—set the tone. If they’re cluttered and chaotic, our moods follow. If they’re calm, it feels like we can breathe. So I’ve leaned into that phrase outer order, inner calm from Gretchin Rubin. And no, it doesn’t mean my house looks like a showroom. Sometimes it’s literally hiding the laundry basket in the bedroom just so the dining table feels inviting for breakfast. Sometimes it means a quick tidy reset at night, so when we walk in the door, we’re landing in peace—not mess.
It’s not perfect. It’s not Instagram-worthy. But it’s calm enough to make our home feel like a safe landing space. And I’ve realised that sitting down to eat together, without a pile of folded washing between us, feels far more valuable than any “productive” task I could tick off. It’s a small reminder that even when motherhood feels too loud, we can create moments of softness.
Rethinking “Busy Days”
I used to pack our four home days full of activities—convinced that he needed to be outside, doing things. But lately, we’ve done the opposite. Now, our mornings at home are slow. We stay in. We play when he wants. If we need to shop for dinner, I explain in the morning what’s on the plan—but I let him decide when we go. As a teacher, I know children don’t always need stimulation to learn—sometimes they need stillness. Slow pedagogy calls this “timefullness”: the idea that children thrive when time feels whole, not fragmented into rushed tasks. As a mama, it took me longer to trust it. But I’ve come to see that slowing down family life this way gives both of us more than any schedule ever could.
And if I’m honest, these shifts have made me question whether the village we keep saying we need is really about people—or about pace. When we live at full speed, do we still need a village, or do we simply need more room to breathe?
The Challenges of Slowing Down
Here’s the tension: my toddler thrives on routine, and I crave structure to feel in control. But too much structure? We all burn out. Too little? He feels lost. Balancing both is the hardest part of slowing down family life at home. It’s explaining the why behind routines, but also letting go when things don’t go to plan. It’s allowing him to flow at his pace, while giving myself enough scaffolding to survive. If I had to confess what derails my slow intentions most? My to-do list. My expectations. The feeling that I need to do more, be more. And I know I’m not alone—sometimes it’s less about fixing the rush and more about embracing the overwhelm, noticing how it shows up, and then choosing where to soften. Even those top struggles only mums will understand often boil down to the invisible weight of pace.
Little Rituals That Hold Us
I’ve learned that rituals are what carry us through. For my wellbeing, it’s skincare—part of my “three rules” that I committed to when I realised I couldn’t wait for rest to start looking after myself. Five minutes of slowing down, even if the rest of the day feels frantic. And recently, I added a new ritual: once a week, we have a no TV evening. I put on a face mask, make a tea, pick up a book. No stimulation, no noise. Just rest. That first time, I woke up the next day refreshed in a way I hadn’t felt in years. It’s now a non-negotiable.
Children thrive on rituals too. Whether it’s the jungle animals in the morning or a bedtime song, these slow, repeated rhythms give them something deeper than “entertainment”—they give them belonging. And as much as I resist the guilt-driven advice to cherish every moment, I do believe that small rituals turn ordinary moments into the ones our children remember.
The Hard but Hopeful Truth
Here’s the controversial bit—slowing down family life isn’t about cherishing every moment, it’s about being present for the ones that matter. Some moments are miserable, messy, and exhausting—and no pedagogy will make them magical. But slowing down gives us a chance to see the moments that do matter. The giggles on the bathroom floor, the calm breakfast at the clear table, the silly jungle animals waiting by the door.
How do I want my child to remember mornings and evenings? Not rushed. Not always happy or perfect—but unhurried, connected, and seen.
And maybe, if we all stopped racing for a second, we’d realise the “it gets easier” promise doesn’t arrive on its own. Sometimes, we make it easier by choosing slow. Maybe this is one of those moments—a chance to pause, pour a cup of tea, and let yourself breathe. That’s the heart behind my Sunday letters: a gentle space in your inbox each week to slow down, feel seen, and remember you’re not doing this alone. I’d love to share that pause with you. Sign up here and I’d love to share that pause with you.
Slowing down family life isn’t about cherishing every moment—it’s about creating enough space to notice the ones that truly matter.
Sign Up for the Newsletter Below ↓