Wide-set, feline eyes regard me, some would say judgementally. “Our hot chocolate has little marshmallows in it.” I bite back the retort I’d give an adult foolhardy enough to announce this. My daughter visibly flinches. “Let’s go upstairs and play,” she says, dragging the petite gastronome to safety. They depart, leaving small splatters of cocoa on the carpet. I breathe deeply and take a sip of my tea. It should be chamomile: it isn’t. Builders’ tea, my mother would call it, no fuss, strong enough to stand the spoon up in. I contemplate life in its murky depths. Thirty five long years, coming to terms with this whole who you are thing, then just as you get to the point where you can fetch the post in wearing pyjamas and to hell with what the neighbours think, your kids start having social lives and you have to dodge embarrassment on someone else’s behalf. This is bluster, I grudgingly admit. My stomach muscles are clenched like a fist, so anxious am I this playdate goes well. Primary school is a gladiatorial arena; the first day back, when the class lists are announced, is when they release the lions. We are a week in, circling the beasts, tridents drawn. Playdates are currency; I don’t want my child to be a pauper, so I submit to the tiny tyrannies of other people’s children: “My mum doesn’t make me wash my hands before snacks.” “I’m allowed to play online as long as I like.” I creep upstairs and hover at the doorway. “The little marshmallows make it too sweet,” the gastronome murmurs, “Like when people pretend to be too nice. I like normal.” The sticky chocolate dregs dribble down her chin. She smudges them with a sleeve, uncaring. This one can come again.
Fiona is beginning a second life in North Vancouver with my husband and three daughters and, for the first time in two decades, time to write. Let’s see how this goes eh?
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