You know how to wiggle don't you?

After my shave and what with the sunshine and everything I’m in a good mood as I gambol upstairs with my daughter to her classroom. Then, as I walk through the door, I see playdate mum. She’s nice and all, but I felt in need of a couple more days before seeing her again.
“Hi.” I say.
“Well, hello!” She beams. “Thank you for the thank you card!”
“Thank you for the thank you!” I parrot, horribly.
She laughs gaily. It may be that she just doesn’t notice or care about my solecisms. Or perhaps it’s the lack of beard.
We fuss around our children for a while and then troop downstairs together.
Outside in the limpid pre-Spring sunshine we circle around each other on the pavement in readiness for our appropriate departure trajectories. Then suddenly I say it. “We really should arrange a return playdate.”
“Great”, she beams.
“But you’re having a baby soon” I say, “So, er, obviously…”
“No, that’s fine, I’m not going to let the baby affect the children”.
I squeak with laughter. She sees me laughing and laughs too, but I'm not sure we're laughing at the same thing.
“Right well, er …”
“How about next week?” she suggests.
NO! I expected it to be a constantly postponed, always–a-few-weeks-off type arrangement. Not this.
“Of course. I’ve got nothing on.”(I haven’t … ever.)
“Sounds great. How about Friday?”
“Friday. Great.”
So that’s it. All arranged.

In the car on the way home I wonder what I’m going to do. There’s no room in our house for running along corridors. No boys’ toys. No Wiggles videos. In fact unless you like running up and down stairs it’s not a whole heap of fun. Then suddenly, while swerving around yet another road-crosser unaware of the silent menace of the Prius, it occurs to me what to do. I can give them both lunch. He likes football. I’ll buy a football and take them to the park and have a kick around and then onto the playground and then back for biscuits and hope that he doesn’t notice the lack of Wiggles. Easy. I don’t know what I was worrying about.