They leave the house, dressed smartly, wallets tucked in their hands. Apart from that, they are empty-handed and don't seem to notice the absence of a tricycle, or a hat, or a bag. Even a close inspection would reveal no fingerprints or smudges on their favourite trousers, and if I could see in their pockets, there would be no little animals, rocks or spare underwear. As they leave the house, they have no need to go back in to grab a sticky little hand, and it has probably not occurred to them to use a countdown to get out to the car. They walk casually, checking their plants on their way. They get into the car - which has no kid's car seat anywhere to be seen - and happily chat as they drive away.
It is 7.30pm. They may not come back for several hours. They are childless, unimpeded by the rigours of bedtime.
They are the adults of the neighbourhood, and while it is quite possible that they have a secret yearning to be me, cuddling my sweet toddler as we share our picnic on the front lawn, tonight, I am envious of their adult-ness.
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