In the days before children, we lived in a City, I carried a handbag, wore make-up, read newspapers, looked fresh-faced from regular lie-ins and occasionally even wore shoes with heels during the day. I was also a regular at local coffee shops, and had time to enjoy my small, regular or large Latte, Cappacino or Macchiato, whilst sitting at my favourite table in the window, reading newspapers, phoning friends or just people watching.
Last weekend, I decided to re-live this experience and visit a local coffee shop. On this occasion, I had no trace of make-up, wore flat comfortable shoes and a rather grubby puffa jacket with a purse stuffed in one pocket and a nappy in the other. Oh yes, and I was pushing a buggy containing a teething one-year-old and two small excitable children hanging off each handle. With caffeine and sugar beckoning, we arrived at the cafe and spent the first few moments wrestling with the doors, apologising to the small queue of people forming behind us.
Finally, we made our entrance, albeit a bit flustered and red-faced, and searched for a table. This is always challenging as it needs to be away from ladies lunching or from small groups of business meetings. However, it had to be close to the loos and ideally an emergency exit, in the event of our three-year-old’s award winning temper tantrums. I spotted the table at the back of the room and spent the next few minutes apologetically steering the buggy between chair legs and shopping bags.
I glanced around for any signs of a highchair and saw one at the far side of the room. Dashing across to get it, prompted high pitch screams from the baby distraught at his mother turning her back on him for a nano second. I return to find three children munching their way through a small white dish of sugar cubes. Once the table has been cleared of any more temptations, such as the salt and pepper mill, the cutlery and the flowers in a vase, we ordered. Sure enough, the first argument kicked off once the food arrived. My son decided he wanted my daughter’s flapjack instead of his Brownie. As the noise level picked up, people glanced at us. Through clenched teeth, I threatened them with a two day television ban. This fell on deaf ears, and as the whining escalated, alarm bells rang in my head signalling it was time for a rapid exit. With a large gulp of my Cappacino, the remains of a flapjack and brownie thrown into a napkin, and a baby clutched under the arm, I steered the buggy towards the door at top speed.
I wrestled with the door as if trying to escape from a bad nightmare and with two sugar-filled children hollowing behind me, emerged into daylight, a bedraggled wreck of a mother. From behind me, a rather nervous voice said, “Excuse me Madam. You forgot to pay your bill.”
