Picnic in the park

It’s not quite midnight but I couldn’t resist another post. Let’s just call it a half post.

The school run stroll powerwalk went off without a hitch. The weatherman was spot on and Emmie and I were greeted by a luminous morning sun. I took notice that the magic hour is precisely 8.34am. This is when our street is flooded with all manner of crimsons, burgandies, navies, and olives. Uniforms, that is. Representing four different infant and primary schools. Driving, biking, scooting, and walking to their respective classes. There’s definitely something heartening about seeing other parents on the school run, yet I have to wonder if they have also spent the majority of their morning trying to drag a whining, half-asleep four-year old into a lukewarm shower. Or attempting to coax her to eat her cereal. Faster. Because we’re late. Again.

I finally delivered Emmie safely into the folds of Ruby class, her bookbag toting carefully sliced red and green grapes for snacktime and her Russian doll water bottle topped up and icy cold. At home I prepared Zoie for a picnic with my friend Irene and her adorable daughter Emma. A dress, no leggings. Trainers, no trainers. No dress, just leggings. And a top. A cardigan? No, too hot. A dress and leggings and trainers. And a crochet cardigan, because surely there would be a light breeze? I wrapped up four cream cheese brownies, more grapes, and we were off. An hour late. Typical.

Zoie was thrilled to see her little friend and they chased each other through crisp autumn leaves. Kicking up yellows, oranges and browns as they went. It was perfect photo fodder. And I spent most of the outing trilling “Zozo look at Mummy! Oooh, good girl, pretty girl. Look at the camera buddy!” Approximately 24 blurry shots later, we headed to the duck pond to see the swans. No ducks. Just swans. And the odd squirrel. Versatile little buggers. Zoie was entranced and decided that it would be a grand idea to hug a swan. Indeed. She did not hug a swan but it wasn’t for lack of trying. She wriggled in her pram like a desperate Houdini, screeching and stretching her hands out to the pond. We left in a hurry. Besides, I had no stale bread to offer the poor creatures, only bit of smashed brownie. What I had managed to salvage from the picnic blanket where little toddler feet had unwittingly trampled my labour of chocolate love…

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