Packing for a night in Sydney (when you live in Sydney) should take 10 minutes. Unless you’re me, prepping for a screen-free staycation with a seven-year-old who thinks Wi-Fi is something that should exist everywhere, all the time.
The essentials list blows out: board games (plural), books, colouring gear, Squishmallows, a watch, an old-school camera, tickets printed out, and a pencil case filled with highlighters and sticky notes. By the time I zip the suitcase, it looks less like luggage and more like an unsanctioned art installation.
We check into Parkroyal Darling Harbour, and before I can even admire the skyline, my daughter shrieks, “A tent!” There it is — the teepee, part of the package the hotel runs during school holidays. It’s pitched by the window like a pint-sized glamping site. Within minutes, she’s dragged in pillows, blankets, and the games we brought. “It’s a gaming cave,” she declares. I nod like this was the plan all along.
We play Uno. Then Guess Who. Then start Monopoly, which fizzles out … it’s better with a crowd. It’s like speed-dating for board games, except every round ends in giggles and exaggerated kid talk. “Mum, you’re roasted!” she yells after a particularly brutal Uno win. And then the conversations begin. Would she rather jump on clouds or slide down a rainbow? What she wants to be when she grows up (this changes five times in a single chat). She quizzes me on which I like more: Rainbow Brite or Gumnut Babies (a choice I am far too invested in). I’ve been introducing her to my childhood favourites, and her curiosity is pure joy.
The next day, we explore Darling Harbour. Staying local changes your perspective — you linger longer at the playground, stroll more slowly along the waterfront. We’ve got one commitment: an ice-skating session. I’ve printed the tickets, have a watch on, and am feeling smugly prepared. But when we’re asked to scan a QR code to sign a waiver, I realise we’ve hit a snag. No phone – no waiver. I explain our situation to the teenager behind the counter, who looks at me like I’ve declared war on convenience itself. Still, she’s kind. She lends me her phone so we can check the waiver box.
Skating is chaotic and slightly terrifying, thanks to the sea of people wobbling on the small slab of ice. But it’s also perfect. We move slowly (there’s no other choice) and laugh often. Later, we wander towards Circular Quay to find a payphone and call home. She squeals into the receiver, “Hi Daddy! It’s the olden days”. We keep it short — there’s a boy behind us waiting to use the “prehistoric machine”, as his mum jokes, iPhone in hand.
We find another booth towards Martin Place. This time she knows what to do: finger in the number hole, spin it around, lift the receiver. I silently reflect that I may be the one learning something – patience, presence, the thrill of analogue.
Back at the hotel, we retreat to the tepee fortress with doughnuts smothered in icing and sprinkles. There are no notifications, no TV hum, no email checking. Just us, giggling in the glow of a low lamp until we eventually fall asleep. One night away, and my daughter now knows about Cabbage Patch Kids, payphones, and apparently my inability to plan a night without overpacking. If that isn’t parenting enlightenment, I don’t know what is.
The writer was a guest of Parkroyal Darling Harbour. See panpacific.com.
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