Park Life

You can go either way when you are an older parent. That's what I think. I stalk when I'm at the park and such stalking provides me with a lot of judgements...or am...observances!

Option 1. Her husband owns his own business which she occasionally helps out in. She is pencil thin wearing the latest fashion, at the park. Heeled boots and capris with the obligatory Baby Bjorn over cashmere sweater. Hair is styled. Glasses are designer. Eyes are slits. Cheekbones would slice. Lips are tightened into a narrow smile. Two boys in tow with flowery names. Billy or Charlie or Fillie.Hes a pale, long haired 4 year old with boat shoes and good clothes. Geared up in his Ralph Lauren rugby shirt with collar up. Red faced and bratty. She spends her time wandering around hoping that one of the local mums from Coffee Morning will appear to pass the monotony. Barley (the son!) is tearing around like a lunatic and she just keeps at him to 'take it easy'. After about 10 minutes she announces that it was time to be thinking about leaving. Clothes are still at the dry cleaners after all. Barley moans. She says he can go down the slide one more time. He takes his time at the top and her pencil thin voices says 'Today...Barley....come onnn'. Where's the joy woman? Barley knows no difference.

Option 2. Her husband is a pig farmer who does a bit of digging on the side. For some reason they are loaded. Noone can quite explain it. She is wearing a practical wind sheeter. Some tattered runners and desperately forgotten jeans. Her hair is cut short and her face has had very little knowledge of make up down through the years. She laughs and runs and chats. Her children chant at her to push them. She does so with gusto. She could be 40. She could be 50. Hard to tell behind the ruddieness. A son and a daughter. Names like Donna and Damian and Marie and Bridget. Family names. Saints names. She is probably driving a Passat. A good and dirty one with a big roaring diesel engine. The children skip around making friends. They stay until there is little light left. Damians school uniform is ruined. Oh well. Mam will take care of it.

It struck me. My children won;t remember that I looked good. They will remember whether I was fun or not.