when someone borrows your children

This morning after tennis, we visited the inlaws as they’ve been away (again – these people travel) in Adelaide. I got go off on a massive tangent about the state with both the highest unsolved homocide rate and sales of Taft hairspray for the highest blonde fringes in the Southern hemisphere, but, later.

Anyway, on leaving, Oscar was so devestated – think lying face down on the driveway wailing as if to summon the piss-off-parents-I’m-not-going-anywhere-without-a-fight spirits – the inlaws, bless them, asked if he could stay for.the.day.

As we hooned off down the street with – just.one.child. – I reckon they took it all as a yes.

So the rest of this stunning Sydney mid-winter day was spent having a quick snooze on the lounge, hanging out with my sensitive second child and – wait for it – m.a.k.i.n.g. p.l.a.y.d.o.u.g.h.

Yes, my status as god-parent has been completely restored.

At one stage – after I made playdough cupcakes and fat little people, Felix said, “this is exactly what I dream of when I want to have you just to myself.”

Yes, today is a good day.