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Mumma’s Brag Book
Art by T.J. ©2017 to Date
The amazing artwork of a Neurodiverse child.
My child will not ever hear...
Discover ART BY T.J. © 2018 to date
T.J creates her birthday invite - 2026
It all began one 44c afternoon when my very clever and endlessly inventive child, T.J., marched into my workroom with that familiar look of absolute determination.
“Mumma,” they declared, “I’ve decided I’m going to design my own 9th birthday party invitations.”
I had barely opened my mouth to reply before T.J. continued in their most matter‑of‑fact tone, “And you will make the invitations using my drawing. I’m the artist, you’re the… you know… assistant.”
And just like that, my role was defined. I was wearing my 'Boss Mumma' WERQ shirt...
I nodded dutifully, but then T.J. delivered the kicker: “I need you to draw me a Meku.”
“A what now?” I asked.
“A Meku,” they said, as if this were the most obvious thing in the universe. “You’ll figure it out.”
Well, I had no idea what a Meku was. None. Was it an animal? A robot? A species from some obscure cartoon? Cue me diving head‑first into an urgent online research mission. I scoured every corner of the internet until I felt I’d cracked the Meku mystery enough to fake some artistic credibility.
Armed with a sketch that hopefully resembled a Meku, I handed T.J. their treasured alcohol ink markers. Off they went to their creative command centre, with the occasional dramatic sigh or hum signalling that true genius was at work.
An hour later, T.J. returned, beaming, holding up a vibrant, slightly chaotic, and utterly brilliant artwork. “Scan it,” they instructed. “Now make my invitations…please”
And of course, as always, I followed orders. Not because anyone else told me to, but because when T.J. says jump, I don’t just ask how high… I ask what font they want on their birthday invite, plus T.J. does use their manners perfectly when commanding.
So, that is how I became the humble production assistant to a nine‑year‑old creative director, and the proud creator of the most original birthday invitations the world has ever seen… featuring a very striking, possibly accurate, Meku.
By T.J. (and Mumma, under strict supervision).
Artful Days with TJ - 2026
During the 2025–2026 school holidays, I had one of those rare chances to attend a Uni lecture without interruption. Normally, when TJ is home, lectures are an adventure. She’s famous at my university for slamming my laptop shut mid-class—a firm declaration that Mumma’s school time is over! But there’s one exception: my senior lecturer, fondly known in our home as “Mumma’s Irish teacher.” If he is speaking, then I am ‘permitted’ to have my school time.
On this particular day, TJ gave me a mischievous grin and said, “Mumma, you go to school with the Irish man. I will be busy.”
From my workroom next to hers, I could hear TJ singing, talking to herself, and clearly scheming something wonderful. The lecture ended, and I turned to find her suddenly beside me. I saw her paint-covered hand first, and then I saw what the other hand was holding—a little canvas, alive with colour and texture. My heart swelled.
With the pride only TJ can radiate, she explained her artistic ‘process’ in detail:
“I got a little canvas and used my hands to spread the paint. I don’t have to wash any brushes! Then I got some dirt from the garden and sprinkled it over the paint. Then—” she paused for dramatic effect—“I picked some of your favourite pink geraniums…” (I sighed) “…took off the petals and pressed them into the paint. It made me happy, Mumma!”
I grabbed my camera to capture the moment as TJ danced with pure delight, her joy infectious. Then, with theatrical exasperation, she glared at her colourful fingers and exclaimed, “Now I have to wash off ALL this paint! Seriously!” Off she stormed to the sink, muttering about her messy hands. I stifled a laugh, heart full to bursting.
Watching her that day, I felt immense pride. I’ve always shown TJ that art doesn’t have to be confined to brushes and neat lines. Hands are free, and hands are powerful. We can use dirt, petals, and whatever our hearts delight in—because art is feeling, not just form.
Another little brag: TJ can now read the poster on my workroom wall—“An ye harm none, do what ye will.” She lives it fully. In our creative world, there are no limits, only joy.
I am, without question, the proudest Mumma in the universe.
The force of creativity is strong...
One shimmering Saturday afternoon, the house was alive with the quiet hum of creativity. My youngest, T.J., who will be nine very soon, has been steeped in the world of art since the moment they opened their curious eyes. From the scent of fresh paint and turpentine to the endless stacks of sketchbooks, art has been their playground, and their neurodiverse mind has always danced freely between colours and ideas.
That day, T.J. approached me with the kind of focus that told me something extraordinary was about to unfold. “Mumma,” they said, “I need high‑gloss acrylic paint, glass medium, and some hardwood boards.” There was no hesitation, no explanation—just pure intention. I handed over the supplies, and off they went to their self‑declared ‘office’.
The house fell into that particular silence that only comes when T.J. is creating. It is the hush of concentration, sprinkled with the occasional clink of glass jars and the soft scrape of a brush against wood. I carried on with my day, half listening, half waiting.
Not long after, T.J. appeared in the doorway of my workroom, holding up two small, gleaming artworks. Their eyes shone with a mix of hope and mischief. In the softest voice, they asked, “Mumma… do these look like one of yours?”
My heart nearly burst. There they stood, this vibrant, imaginative little human, presenting me with works that felt like echoes of my own, yet entirely their own as well. In that moment, any shadow of doubt I’d ever had about letting them explore every medium, every messy experiment, vanished.
“My darling girl,” I said, taking in the glossy swirls and delicate strokes, “they don’t just look like mine… they look like something even better. They look like yours.”
And I, quite simply, became the proudest Mumma in the universe.
Sacred Time
As we weave in sacred time - ©DMC 2026
In the quiet hum of our shared space,
Brushes whisper, colours race,
My little one, not yet nine,
Breathes life in hues, in every line.
From birth she’s bathed in art’s delight,
Her mind a prism catching light,
Curious hands, a heart so true,
Seeing the world in a brighter view.
By my side, she’s always near,
Asking questions soft and clear,
Together we weave in sacred time,
Our private wonders, yours and mine.
High gloss dreams and glassy streams,
A hardwood world for vivid themes,
She vanished to her ‘office’ door,
Then tiptoed back with something more.
“Mumma… does this look like yours?”
A whisper trembling through the pores
Of my proud and swelling heart—
“No” I said, “you’ve made your own”
Tears like rain in sunlight gleam,
Pride and awe in gentle stream,
A natural gift, so wild, so free—
My daughter’s art, a part of me.
Art by T.J.© – That’s NOT a BIRD!
Some moments in life remind you that art is less about what you see and more about how you feel. A cement bird, plain and heavy, came into our lives as a “damaged” garden ornament, a giveaway from a dear friend who shares our love for colour and creativity. Where others saw an imperfect lump of cement, TJ saw a blank canvas.
Straight away TJ told them, ’that's not a bird! It’s a BLUEBIRD!’
I prepared it carefully, sealing and undercoating, feeling the warm hum of my heat gun setting the undercoat layers. Meanwhile, TJ hovered over our stash of paints, lost in thought, searching for just the right blues. It was a quiet joy, watching her move from hesitation to certainty, each brushstroke bringing her vision to life.
I sat in silence and just watched…
Layer by layer, TJ, using gentle waves of their little crafting heat gun—like a magic wand—the cement shape transformed. It wasn’t just an imperfect lump of a cement bird anymore. It was TJ’s BLUEBIRD, vibrant and alive, a splash of happiness in our garden.
Now it sits on our back patio, a permanent reminder that beauty is often hidden in the imperfect, waiting for a little imagination, my TJ and a lot of heart to bring it out.
T.J. doing it 'their way'
It was the week after Christmas 2025, and the house was still buzzing from the festive chaos. Among the scattered ribbons and leftover gingerbread people crumbs, T.J. had claimed their prize possession: the brand‑new crafting kit gifted by their doting family.
I knew better than to interfere. T.J.’s PDA meant that any offer of help would be met with a firm, if polite, “No, Mumma. I’ve got this.” So, I retreated to my workroom, conveniently next to their self‑declared ‘office’, where they embarked on their grand creative mission.
From my little sanctuary, I caught snippets of their world: the soft hum of a tune, the occasional burst of singing, and the rhythmic tap‑tap of scissors against the desk. Then came the muttering. I peeked around the doorway just in time to see T.J., brow furrowed, reading the instructions with great seriousness… only to toss the entire booklet over their shoulder.
“Instructions are boring,” they declared. “I’ll do it my way.”
And off they went. Paint tubes rolled across the table, ribbons tangled like tiny serpents, and glitter made its inevitable migration to every surface in sight. Every so often, I’d hear a triumphant “Ha!” or a satisfied giggle, followed by whispered commentary to themselves about how much better their method was.
Hours passed, and finally I heard the scrape of a chair and the unmistakable shuffle of little feet approaching. T.J. appeared in my doorway, grinning ear to ear, holding two masterpieces of chaos and creativity that could only have been born from doing it entirely their way.
“Mumma,” they said proudly, “look what I made. And I didn’t need the instructions at all.”
I took in the mishmash of textures and colours, the slightly lopsided but utterly charming creations, and smiled. “It’s perfect,” I said, and I meant it. Because in our house, there is no greater magic than T.J. doing it their way.
And somewhere behind them, the instruction booklet still lay abandoned on the floor, a silent witness to their boundless, brilliant independence.
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