The Lunchdate

I met up with my old university friend yesterday. She lives about 45 mins away and has two young children of her own. We're at very similar stages in our lives and had lots of catch up on.

As we arrived, I noticed her house smelt of baking. Her gorgeous, Boden-clothed children were happily playing in the house and garden. My baby boy had vomit splatter marks on his bib and was whingeing. Thankfully, the daughter didn't let me down and ran off to join her new playmates.

University friend opened her oven door and removed a batch of beautifully baked biscuits. The daughter eyed them suspiciously - what were they and where was the packet?

During the three hours I spent with my friend, I think we probably exchanged no more than 5 meaningful sentances. This was not for want of trying or desire. Everytime we managed to sit down together, a small child would request something / throw something / injure something / jump on something / shout something. This would require us to either stand up, use a wipe or shout. Often all three.

As I drove home, I thought back to our university days. Back then, my 'mornings' normally began with a dose of lunchtime Neighbours. This morning, the daughter woke me up at 5am asking to use the loo and wanting to know if her nursery school teacher was coming on holiday with us.

I wouldn't change it for anything.