PAT McDERMOTT:
planning a girls’ night is a mission
Lorraine called. Could we all meet for a night out? I telephoned Pat H. She checked with Kathy who left a message for Maggie. Maggie phoned back but Kathy didn’t pick up so Maggie left Kathy a message to say she’d contact Maryanne who’d contact Vivienne who’d remind Lorraine.
It was like planning a royal wedding only without the staff.
When we had young families it was even worse. We didn’t go out with the girls until tomorrow’s school lunches were packed, shirts ironed, permission slips signed, the cat fed, reminders posted on the fridge door and dinner in the oven.
Men went out or stayed out regularly. “I didn’t go out all the time,” says the MOTH (The Man of the House) testily. “I just didn’t come home.”
He was waiting for “witching hour” to be over. The time between 5pm and 7pm when everybody’s hungry and nobody’s happy. Always a good time to be somewhere else.
Six phone calls later we agreed that, despite our impossibly crowded schedules, we’d meet at our usual café on Friday at 7pm. We opened a nice unwooded chardonnay and followed it with cheese, coffee, chocolate and the latest gossip. We went round the table detailing successes and setbacks since we last met. We updated our kids’ resumés and admired photos of beautiful grandchildren.
We stayed for hours, long after our usual bedtimes.
Before we left we cleaned our table and wiped down the bar. The barista was asleep, poor darling, so we put the milk in the fridge, the plastic dome over the muffins and tucked our money into his shirt pocket. Then we crept out, locking the door behind us.
We’re mums. We’ll always have a soft spot for tired young men.
When my own children were young, we didn’t go to cafés. We went to each other’s houses where we sat on dodgy sofas or blankets in the backyard, surrounded by a restless mob of squirming babies and whining toddlers. There was instant coffee, teabag tea and Scotch Finger biscuits straight from the packet. If it was someone’s birthday we brought Tim Tams.
Bliss!
When you’re a sleep-deprived young woman, overwhelmed by motherhood, even a soggy, pre-sucked arrowroot biscuit has its charms.
Our kids are grown up now, with babies of their own. In theory it should be dead easy for we grandmothers to meet for coffee. But everyone is still busy. Very, very busy.
“Busy is the new black,” one friend sniffed. “It’s saying you’re not old. You’re in demand!”
Did she have a point? While I waited for friends to arrive I listened, discreetly, to a woman at the next table.
“Gwen, I’ve got my diary open on my mobile.”
“How’s Tuesday?”
“No good. Pilates, then my accountant.”
“Thursday?”
“Body corporate meeting. Chasing up overdue levies and finding out who is putting beer bottles in the paper bins.” “Monday the 24th?
“What year?”
“2021 or 2022 suits me.”
“July 14, 2024 is good for me.” “Where will we go?”
“The old café. If it’s still open then.” “Great! Oh Gwen?”
“Yes.”
“You will let me know if you die in the meantime, won’t you? I’d hate to sit there taking up a table for no reason.”
“Of course. I’ll get someone to text you! Have to run! Busy, busy!”