August 27, 2026 — 7:30pm
Nothing says “modern parenting” like watching your seven-year-old’s heart break over an exploded squishy full of radioactive goo. I finally caved and bought my daughter a “dumpling squishy” from the $2 shop. You know, the viral fidget toys keeping Border Force busy. (Note: they’re not $2. Small ones are $8. Large ones are obscenely pushing $45 and are kept behind the counter like ciggies.)
Her joy was boundless: it was like Taylor Swift had dropped by on Christmas morning with a bunny. After an hour of my daughter’s ecstatic kneading, the thing burst while we were in the car. Her face crumpled into unbearable anguish as I briefly debated calling the fire brigade to handle the toxic spill while yelling at her not to touch anything.
I drove to the nearest $2 shop to buy another one because I couldn’t handle her Shakespearean-level despair, even if we’d just narrowly avoided a crash. “Why do you like them so much?” I asked her as we left the $2 shop. “It helps me regulate,” she said.
My jaw dropped. I have battled anxiety for most of my adult life, so I’m hardly anti-coping mechanisms. My cupboard is filled with enough “calm” herbal teas and supplements to subdue an entire carriage of Sydney commuters in peak hour. Some help; others are just placebos in nice packaging. What I never expected was to see “managing anxiety” turn into a consumerist boom for kids, to the point where even kids who don’t have anxiety, like my daughter, are now fluent in therapy-speak. Toys aren’t just toys any more; they’re “coping mechanisms” that help them “regulate”.
