This Aussie kids’ TV juggernaut has always packed an emotional punch, and the live stage show was no exception – giving one toddler and her mother a valuable lesson in dealing with disappointment. 

As a parent, a neat game to play is to think about which of your many failures your child will be talking to their therapist about in a few decades’ time. I added a new one to the list this weekend: she didn’t get to touch one of the big balls at Bluey’s Big Play, and it was, of course, all my fault.

I’ll explain, but firstly, the show – which was delightful. Bluey, if you’re not au fait, is the best thing to come out of Australia since, I dunno, cask wine: an animated TV show for little kids about a family of anthropomorphic blue heelers and their everyday adventures. In the hellscape that is toddler television, Bluey is a breath of fresh Brissie air. Having deservedly taken over the world via the small screen, in 2023 Bluey got a theatrical adaptation and this month, it finally made it to Aotearoa, sending sprogs into raptures across the motu. 

I was a little nervous as to how these charming cartoon canines would be rendered in real life, fearing grown-ass adults in giant Bluey costumes prancing about on stage and giving my daughter yet another trauma to unload on the aforementioned future therapist. Hearing they were going to be puppets, an art form synonymous with trauma if ever there was one, didn’t exactly put me at ease, but I should’ve trusted the process: these puppets were perfection, each one helmed by two puppeteers who somehow melted into the background despite being dressed like 80s aerobics instructors, and possessing the stamina to match.

My kid, along with the rest of the children packing out Spark Arena on a rainy Saturday afternoon, was charmed from the moment the gawky yet graceful bin chickens wandered on to the stage. She laughed maniacally through much of the show, even at the bits that weren’t funny (which, thankfully, wasn’t as inappropriate as when she’d done it the day before, at an Anzac Day service).

Part of Bluey’s parental appeal is that it’s so damn relatable, evidenced in a plot point of the live show being the phone fixation of Bandit, Bluey’s dad. Bandit has played with Bluey and her little sister Bingo all morning, and now all he wants to do is sit on a bean bag and get a moment of peace to read the link about lawn grubs his mate has sent to him, but do those bloody kids allow this? No sir they do not. Cue much madcap mayhem as the kids hide his phone. 

It’s not all fun and games, though. Bluey has always packed an emotional punch, and the live show is no exception, with the fraught relationship between Bluey’s mum Chilli and her sister Brandy hanging in the air. Some background knowledge of the TV show came in handy here, as the Onesies episode from season three features Brandy visiting the family for the first time in four years. Throughout seven exquisite minutes of television, it is subtly revealed that at the heart of the sisterly estrangement is Brandy’s struggles to have children of her own. The live show has Chilli counselling her daughters after a sisterly squabble, prompting some self-reflection that results in her picking up the phone to give Brandy a bell. Heartwarming stuff. 

It was a fitting end to the show for the grown-ups in the audience, but of course there was an encore: a truly magical encore involving a giant game of “keepy-uppy”. Great big balls, light as air, flew into the crowd, seemingly appearing from nowhere to be batted from row to row, just as a deluge of bubbles rained down upon us from above. It was honestly quite mesmerising, a perfect end to a perfect 50 minutes of entertainment, and I was so mesmerised I perhaps didn’t quite notice how high my daughter’s arms were stretching, how eager the look on her face as those damn balls came tantalisingly close and were batted away within the blink of an eye by bigger, bolshier kids. According to the Herald review published the next day, “nearly every child got a good whack at the balls”.

Suddenly, it was over. Balls gone, bubbles gone, and I finally noticed my child was crestfallen. “I… I…”, she spluttered, her upper lip quivering. “Oh I’m sorry, it was a bit hard wasn’t it? Did you really want to touch one?” I scooped her up and scurried the hell out of there. “I… I… really… really… really wanted to,” she sobbed. I briefly contemplated seeking a consolation prize via the lengthy queue at the merch stand on the way out, but thought, nah, she’ll get over it. She might’ve, too, if it hadn’t been for a stroke of terrible luck in the form of a delighted little boy, engrossed in rapt conversation with his mother, walking right behind us all the way to the car. “What was your favourite part of the show?” she asked. “The balls and bubbles!” he chirped. “Daddy lifted me up so I could touch a ball!” I could tell that my sleepy, sulky two-and-a-half-year-old, slumped on my shoulder, was taking in every damn word.

Why didn’t I lift her up? What sort of mother am I? What sort of chance did she have against big kids, school kids even, without me stepping in to elbow the odd overexcited seven-year-old out of the way? The guilt, briefly, was all encompassing. Nearly every child got a good whack at the balls. 

She mentioned it a couple more times that day, but by the evening I’d moved on and figured she had too. Life’s full of disappointment, kid, you better get used to it, I thought (but definitely didn’t say to her face – surely there’s a Bluey episode to teach that particular emotional skill). Putting her to bed, we discussed the day’s events. I mentioned the show and how much fun it was. She agreed, then stared into the distance, removed her thumb from her mouth and uttered accusingly, “But I didn’t get to touch a big ball.”