I’m convinced the universe sits back sometimes, looks at my life, and says, “Let’s just see what this idiot does with this.”

This week it delivered a cane toad into my youngest daughter’s bedroom at 10pm on a school night.

Now, I don’t know how a cane toad gets into a child’s room, and frankly, I don’t want to know.
Some mysteries are better left alone.
Like how socks disappear in the wash or how kids can cry over the “wrong” spoon.

But there we were.
London wandered past her sister’s room for reasons unknown — and saw it.
The toad.
Sitting there in the middle of the carpet like it paid rent.

She screamed bloody murder.
Burst into tears instantly.
Elise and I jumped up in full parental adrenaline mode — which is basically panic mixed with denial mixed with whatever courage you can scrape together when your heart’s pounding but you’re pretending it’s fine.

We rushed into the hallway, and London, crying hysterically, points and shouts,
“THERE’S A TOAD IN ISLA’S ROOM!”
with the urgency of a firefighter reporting a house collapse.

And now it’s go-time.

We burst into Isla’s room like two incompetent ninjas, trying to be silent — because the one thing worse than a cane toad in a child’s room… is waking the child and then telling them about the cane toad in their room.

We’re whisper-yelling at each other.
“Where is it?!”
“Behind the dollhouse!”
“No, that’s a sock!”
“Move the chair!”
“I can’t move the chair, you’re in the way!”
“SHHHH!”
“You shhh!”

Meanwhile, London is outside the door sobbing, fully concerned about toads being in her bed now, and we’re in there jumping over dollhouses, stubbing toes, sending desk chairs flying like we're filming a low-budget action movie.

I’m sweating.
Elise is panicking.
The toad is having the time of its life.

And here’s the kicker:
We’re trying SO HARD to stay quiet so Isla doesn’t wake up because she would absolutely lose her mind if she saw this thing hopping around her room.

Picture this:
Two adults in pyjamas.
Torch apps on.
Whisper-fighting.
Jumping between soft toys and backpacks.
Trying to trap a toad that’s faster than both of us combined.

You cannot make this shit up.

Eventually, after several failed attempts and one near miss that involved the toad launching itself off the wall like it was auditioning for Cirque du Soleil, we cornered it.
I scooped it up with a container and carried it outside like it was a bomb.

I came back inside, soaked, sweating, and probably traumatised.
London still crying, and not wanting to go back to her own bed.
Isla stayed sound asleep – that girl will sleep through anything.
Elise looked like she needed a drink.

And after the chaos settled, I just sat there thinking:

This.
This right here.
This is the stuff life is made of.

Not the big moments.
Not the perfect days.
Not the planned successes.
Not the awards or achievements or polished “living-my-best-life” versions of ourselves.

It’s the 10pm cane toads.
The unexpected nonsense.
The things you didn’t see coming.
The chaos you didn’t ask for.

It’s these stupid, ridiculous, unplanned moments that teach you more about yourself than any calm, organised day ever will.

Stoics talk about control and composure like it’s all philosophical.
But nothing humbles your ego faster than chasing a cane toad around a dark bedroom trying not to scream.

Life throws toads at you — not literal ones usually, but the metaphor stands.

The unexpected shows up.
Your plans get derailed.
You get tested in the dumbest possible ways.

And right then, in that moment, you get to choose how you respond.

You either fall apart.
Or you breathe, laugh at the absurdity, and keep going.

That’s all Stoicism ever really was.

Not silence on a mountaintop.
Not deep quotes in elegant handwriting.
Just… not losing your shit when the universe throws something ridiculous into your path.

Life is a mess.
Families are chaotic.
Kids are unpredictable.
Queensland wildlife is out to kill us all.

But the stories — the real ones — the ones that become family folklore for decades… they come from nights like this.
Nights where you’re scared, tired, frustrated, laughing, and loving all at once.

So yes.
This week, a cane toad snuck into my daughter’s bedroom.
It was pure madness.
And I wouldn’t trade the story for anything.

Sometimes the chaos is the lesson.
Sometimes the disaster is the memory.
And sometimes the thing you’re chasing at 10pm isn’t a metaphor — it’s just a bloody cane toad.

If nothing else, it reminded me of this:

Life doesn’t need to be perfect to be meaningful.
It just needs to be lived.

PS: If this gave you something to laugh at (or relate to), feel free to forward it to someone who needs a reminder that everyone’s life is chaos behind the scenes.

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