So, I had a proper ladies day in London with my mum. Nancy was with the childminder and I'd taken the day off work.
I met mum in Knightsbridge and we had coffee at the Mandarin Oriental. Pretended we were posh. Ignored the fact it was a fiver for a flat white. Seriously. A fiver? I know I don't go out much/ ever. But wow.
And then went to Harvey Nicks, where we talked about our skin routines to a hot Russian lady from the Channel concession. Not revealing mine is just using Nancy's wet wipes. Before she lathered us in mega expensive creams. I'm talking, up of a hundred smackers for the stuff that only goes under your eyes.
We sat off upstairs, drank wine and ate sushi from a revolving table.
And it felt ace.
I wasn't the mum who was covered in snot (well I was a bit)/ wearing pyjamas to the shop round the corner/ or planning another quorn based tea that could be chilli, could be spaghetti bolognese, depending on if you put the big light on or not.
I was a 34 year old woman in a dress and heels who was having lunch in Harvey Nichols on a Wednesday, like it's the most normal thing to be doing when most people were at work.
At one point I was laughing with my mum as the waiter had offered her children's chop sticks, which meant a spoon.
And then my phone beeps.
And it's the childminder.
And Nancy's fallen on her face and split her lip.
What do you do with that info when it was just an FYI text in the first place.
If I was working round the corner, and not in London a bit tipsy with my mum, I still wouldn't go and get her. Cos the residing overtone was, 'she's fine, don't panic, just don't be shocked when you pick up Rocky Balboa.'
But as I'm a walk/ tube/ train/ taxi away from her- the shit mum siren goes off in my head.
And I wonder when that will silence.
I know I can't be there to catch Nancy's every fall. Although I really wish they would happen less regularly. I realise she's pushing her boundaries, and exploring new territories. But she doesn't have to keep doing it face first.
She is a law unto herself now. You can almost see the cogs working in her brain as I say 'no!' as she goes to throw yet another meal over the side of her high chair. She maintains eye contact as her little hand slowly moves, she releases her grip, and half a lasagne falls on the floor.
Or strategically pulls every wet wipe out of the packet, one by one, with absolute concentration, disgarding them over her shoulder as she goes. While all the wooden toys remain untouched in the corner.
And she's started trying my clothes and jewellery on. By trying on I mean wrapping them around her neck and crawling off with them.
And I think, I've got all this to come with my daughter. The days out together. The lunches and laughter.
As I stood off in the railway station on the way home, eating my second pudding that evening of Upper Crust croissant, a grey haired, orange faced man on the platform winked at me.
And just as I double checked it wasn't a tick, he did it again.
I've had a Chanel make-over. I'm dressed in an outfit that I'm sure I've worn to at least one wedding. And I get winked at by David Dickinson.
I guess that's my trade off. Worrying about a little person on a daily basis obviously doesn't promote youthfulness. Even with two hundred quid eye cream on.
But as I look in on Nancy when I get home, sleeping on her front with her bum in the air, completely unbothered by the welt on her lip which isn't a bit as bad as I'd imagined it to be, it's worth it.
Nancy can always buy me the Chanel face cream for Christmas.