Late last year I went to Sydney with two of my oldest Brisbane girlfriends to visit one of our other oldest friends for her 40th birthday. My Brisbane friends and I all have children, while our Sydney friend is child-free.
For two glorious days and nights, it felt like I’d stepped back 15 years. There were no children around demanding babycinos while we sipped our lattes and chatted each morning, no toddler to fight with about getting in the pram when we went for a beautiful walk beside the harbour, no time we had to be home by when we went for a long boozy lunch (which cost the same price per person as my family’s weekly grocery bill), no small person begging to be twirled when we were dancing around my friend’s lounge room to 90s classics, no one climbing on me and wanting the channel changed when we lolled on the couch hungover and watched Sex and the City reruns.
It was just wonderful to be with my girlfriends. I tried to soak in every second of this time together, filling myself up with joyful child free girl time, basking in the ease of long held friendships where you know everything about each other. But throughout the weekend I found myself feeling unexpectedly sad at intervals, and regularly tearful (and not just because of the champagne) about this special time with my friends.
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