We fixed it. Then we had to fix the fix.

Let me tell you about the time I was very proud of a decision I made, and then had to un-make it two days later.

It's a good story. Mostly because I came out of it slightly humbled and with some new tables from IKEA.

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The first air clay workshop we ran at Naru was, by every measure, a success. Kids loved it. Parents loved watching their kids love it. There was squishing and rolling and a lot of abstract sculptures that were apparently Swiss rolls (it was a dessert theme).

The only issue was the setup. We had everything crammed inside the play area, on a few tables that were — let's say — not built for workshops (one of them was even the pretend-play ironing board). It was a bit chaotic. A bit cramped. The kind of organised chaos where it's working but you're also holding your breath a little.

And then the workshop ended. And two of the tables, having given everything they had, simply gave up. They broke. Genuinely just — done.

So when we started planning the second round, I thought: okay. This time we do it properly.

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We moved the whole station out of the play area. Set it up on our retail table — sturdy, spacious, the kind of table that was not going to collapse on anyone. We had room. We had airflow. We had a little sign. It was right in front of the entrance. Parents and kids would surely see it. It looked great.

I was quite pleased with us.

We ran it on a Thursday and Friday, smack in the middle of the two-week school holiday. And on both days, children walked past our beautiful, sturdy, well-organised clay station and felt absolutely nothing.

Like — nothing. Not even a flicker of curiosity. They'd glance over, register that a table existed, and move on with their lives.

We stood there. We waited. We smiled at passing kids in that hopeful way that I'm sure was not at all weird or desperate. We even reached out to parents directly — but parents know better than anyone that you can't sign a child up for something they haven't decided they want. Their interest has to come first.

Day one: quiet.

Day two: also quiet.

I won't tell you exactly how quiet because that's not the point. The point is it was quiet, and we couldn't figure out why. The clay was the same. The activity was the same. We had it right in front of the entrance — you couldn't miss it walking in. What more do you want from us.

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Then someone pointed out the table height.

A regular dining table is about 75cm tall. Which is fine, if you are an adult or a tall child or anyone who can actually see the surface of the table. But if you are four years old — or three, or two-and-a-half — that table is basically a wall. You can't see what's on it. You don't know there's clay up there. You just see the edge of a table and keep walking, because why would you stop at a wall.

Inside the play area, the tables had been low. Kid height. Everything was visible, everything was reachable, and kids were already in that space anyway. Of course they stopped. Of course they wanted to join in. It was right there, at their level, in their world.

We moved it out, raised it up, and made it completely invisible to the exact people we were trying to invite.

Oh.

Oh no.

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I went to IKEA.

Found some low tables. Brought them back. Moved everything into the play area. Kid height, back where the kids were, back where they could actually see the clay with their own two eyes.

And then kids stopped. And looked. And started asking their parents if they could join.

Of course they did.

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Here's the thing I keep thinking about.

When we moved the clay to the big table, it looked better. To us. It looked organised and intentional and like something a proper workshop should look like. We were proud of it.

But we set it up from our height. Our eye level. Our idea of what a good workshop looks like. And kids walked straight past it because it simply wasn't in their world.

We had designed the whole thing for adults to feel good about. And forgotten to make it visible to the actual humans we were doing it for.

I think about this a lot now — not just at the café, but at home.

How many things do we do this with?

Eat with your fork and spoon. Build the blocks this way. Put the books cover facing front on the bookshelf. Rules that feel completely reasonable from where we're standing — rules we probably don't even question because they were handed down to us and we just… kept them. Carried them into parenthood without really deciding if they still made sense.

And meanwhile the kid is just trying to eat their dinner. Or build something. Or learn.

Sometimes I wonder how many times we've accidentally put the table too high — set things up the way we thought they should be done, from our adult logic and our adult eye level — and then felt confused or frustrated when our kids didn't engage the way we hoped.

Maybe they're not being difficult. Maybe they just can't see what we're trying to show them.

Because we forgot to get down to where they are.

The clay was the same. The kids were the same. We just finally stopped insisting the table had to be a certain height.

And everything worked.