My beautiful girls have spent almost two weeks away at their grandparents’ house. This infuriated Miss 11, because although they spoil her completely, she misses out on all the good stuff that happens when she’s not here. One FaceTime conversation where her dad was eating pizza scrolls followed by tiramisu was her breaking point.

“Why do you cook fun foods when I’m away, but when I’m home it’s boring salad all the time?” she demanded.

And look, it’s partly budget, mostly a commitment to a healthy lifestyle, but the main underlying reason is simply that I have more energy when they’re away. There. I said it. Rather than admit that out loud, though, I promised to make her whatever she wants once she gets home.

Which is why at 7.52am last Wednesday I was at the butcher and Woolworths buying the ingredients to make lasagne with slow-roasted tomato passata, having negotiated her down from beef bourguignon. Such grown-up tastes she has!

However, early Thursday morning she ran into my room and woke me up crying about a super scary nightmare. It was after 5am, so Hubby was already at work. I pulled her into bed with me, kissed her, and told her that she was safe. She snuggled into me and I held her close as her tears subsided and her breathing slowed. She tucked her head under my chin and fell asleep in my arms.

The thing is, I don’t know how many moments like these I have left with her. And although I don’t want her to have scary dreams, being your child’s safe space is just so special. The nights of a tear-stained child clutching a blankie at my bedside are limited, I know.

She didn’t want to talk about her dream, but I was on a parenting roll (and I needed to trick Miss 17 into driving my car so she’d put petrol in it for me), so I announced Thursday morning would be Miss 11 special time. However, she’s just gotten her ears pierced, so our usual day at the pool wasn’t an option.

Instead, we took her into town and spent almost an hour wandering through Kmart. I managed to throw a few uniform items in with a bead kit and a decorate your own drink bottle, so it was a win all round.

We then went to Big W, where Miss 11 and I had a hobby horse race (which I won) (they have triceratops ones, FYI), and we ended with a stroll to the bookshop via the doughnut shop for ice cream. Unfortunately, I’m trying to make Miss 11 a more competent human, so she was holding both the bag from Kmart with the uniforms and her ice cream cone. While in the bookshop, she picked up a book and placed her half-eaten cone into the shopping bag.

It was at the Summer Street pedestrian crossing that I realised this, and once upon a time this would have made me see red. These days I’m a much more relaxed parent and I burst into hysterical laughter. I did make her do a load of washing once we got home, though.

That night she climbed into bed with me with her new book and placed her head on my shoulder as I read her a chapter. Moments like this make me want to go back in time. I’d love to read her fairytales again or swaddle her and rock her in my arms and watch as she fell asleep on me.

But the moment in town made me realise that — even if I went back — I would never be this appreciative. I’d worry I was doing it wrong, and I’d get stressed about the mess. Once they’re not babies anymore, you have to let that go.

So instead of rocking her to sleep, instead of tucking her into her bassinet, and instead of kissing her long-gone baby cheeks, I pulled out the Nerf gun I had hidden under my pillow, shouted “WARRRRRR”, and chased her down the hall while she squealed with delight.

You can’t go back, but big kids love the time with you just as much.