This year, I staged a quiet mental boycott of Book Week.
I say mental boycott, because while my brain boycotted Book Week, my kids still dressed up enough to be part of the hoopla.
My three-year-old daughter marched into daycare as Spider(hu)man and my five-year-old son as Batman. Their costumes, however, were both pre-loved treasures I found at our local op shop. No late-night sewing, no cereal boxes turned into dragon wings with hot glue caked into my hands. Honestly, I felt liberated.
Because a couple of years ago, that was me. An elaborate Zog masterpiece took shape, and I felt as though I ranked at least 8 out of 10 on the decent-mum scale for the day.
But over the past couple of years, I’ve been mulling on this more, and I’ve landed in a different place.
When my friends WhatsApped last night about costume plans, I announced in no uncertain terms that: “I f*cking hate Book Week.” One of my friends shot back: “This, from the journalist.”
She’s right. I should like Book Week. I love books, my kids love books, and I love them loving books.
But while I love the idea of Book Week, it’s the execution of Book Week where I tap out.
Every year, parents (and let’s be honest, predominantly mums) everywhere are sent scrambling. We’re sourcing or making costumes, adding yet another task to the already groaning parental mental load. Social media floods with masterpieces: Where’s Wally, The Gruffalo, a Willy Wonka that looks like Johnny Depp made it himself.
This used to bother me on a personal level. I’ve stayed up too late sweating over costumes that fell apart before recess. I’ve spent too much money and too many hours at Kmart. But lately, it bothers me on a broader, systemic level.
More than 1 in 6 children in Australia live below the poverty line. That’s over 700,000 kids whose families might not have the means to spend $30–$50 (or more) on a costume. That’s hundreds of thousands of parents who might not have the time, energy, or headspace to whip something up between shifts, caring responsibilities, and simply trying to keep food on the table.
When schools roll out Book Week dress-up days, or other themed events (and let’s be honest, there are many — in the past month alone my son has been asked to dress up as a scientist, and again to celebrate “100 Days of Kindergarten” by dressing as his future profession), what we’re really doing is creating yet another opportunity for privilege to be platformed. And this is at our public schools.
The kids with handmade, elaborate costumes get praised and photographed. The kids with store-bought or re-worn outfits might feel a little less special. And the kids who come with nothing? You don’t need a child psychologist to know this likely leaves a mark.
It doesn’t have to be this way. Imagine if every school had a Book Week wardrobe — a collection of costumes all kids could borrow. It wouldn’t take much: a bunch of capes, some animal ears, a few wizard hats, a basket of generic props. Fund it properly through school budgets or policy reform, rather than expecting teachers to dip into their own pockets. Suddenly, Book Week becomes fun, creative, and inclusive, like it’s meant to be.
I don’t want to be the Book Week Grinch. My kids genuinely loved their op-shop finds this year, and I know how much joy the parade brings to classrooms. I get why teachers and librarians throw themselves into it. And I’ll always support anything that fosters a love of books and storytelling.
But we need to acknowledge the mental and financial toll of events like this, and stop assuming every family has the time, money, and resources to play along. Ideally, we could sort out a version of Book Week that celebrates books without turning it into a showcase of whose parents seemingly care the most.
Next year, I might send Spider(hu)man and Batman back into the fray. But ideally, they’ll be joined by classmates who didn’t need to feel anxious about what they’d be wearing.