First potato hell, then relationship therapy!

Besides Cleo, Sophie is my best friend. Sophia is mom. She has a three-year-old daughter and a two-month-old son. What Sophie no longer has is sex, high heels, freshly highlighted hair.

Since becoming a mother, Sophie looks decrepit. Understandable. The two potatoes are exhausting. Do not get me wrong. Sophie’s potatoes are delicious potatoes. They are sweet and funny and beautiful and utterly magical.

The big one recently asked me why my legs are suddenly “so fat”. The potato is not wrong. The eaten Christmas bacon is not completely gone yet.

I often meet Sophie and her crew for lunch. Where we used to order tenderloin and wine before noon in hip Restis, we now meet in such large-scale restaurants.

The reason: there are children’s corners, high chairs and buffets of your choice for 6.90. We usually meet at 11 am. So that the potato can play until 11:30 am. Then eat, then goodbye! The afternoon nap! The time window is very fixed. Deviations are not possible, because then the whole construction collapses.

So it goes day after day after day after day!

No doubt, Sophie shits on that. your husband too. However, they are aware that these are only a few years of their lives. They can live with that. For the love of potatoes.

Recently it has happened again. I’ll be there a little before 11am. I take a seat at the table near the children’s corner. Other potatoes are already making their rounds here. one screams. Nobody knows why. Not even the very stressed mother knows. She tries to comfort the potato with pacifiers, bottles and Nuschi. Without success. The potato now hits a smaller potato in its blind rage.

Another potato sits quietly on the slide. She doesn’t want to slide. She doesn’t care about the line behind her. The boy’s mother, on strike, tries to persuade him to slide. Meldown for his part!

Now two other mothers arrive with their potatoes. One screams her heart out in the buggy. She wants to go home. The other potato is easy, but doesn’t want to play because she doesn’t know the kids here. The mother has to go now. Now the chilled potato is screaming. Mom can’t go! I’m so sorry mom. She takes the potato under her arm and walks towards the toilet.

Don’t even pee in peace. Poor mother. Sophie already knows. She doesn’t know when she was last able to poop in peace.

Now it is 11:30 am. We need to get to the buffet IMMEDIATELY. Cold fries, carelessly cooked carrots and massive pasta with bad sauce.

I opt for rösti (poorly seasoned) and a lukewarm bratwurst. By the time we get there the sausage isn’t lukewarm anymore, no, it’s cold. No wonder. By the time we get back Sophie’s potato has emptied 3 plates, spilled 2 cups of syrup and the little one has pooped a lot. Since he hates full diapers, he yells around the store.

Before Sophie can even start eating, she has to go.

The afternoon nap.

After 1.5 hours with her and the potatoes we couldn’t exchange a word, exchange gossip and certainly not drink a sip of coffee in peace.

That’s totally fine with Sophie. Also for me. Because it’s Sophie. Because I know that’s how it is when we meet. And because our friendship is stable enough to survive the current state of affairs.

Also, I’ve never seen Sophie happier than she is now, with dark circles under her eyes, hairline and in mommy jeans. I couldn’t be happier.

Meanwhile, I experience my moment of happiness when I leave the restaurant. And saunter to my favorite cafe, where I can stare at my phone for an hour and drink cappuccino in peace. I could do that for two or three hours. I’m happy.

I’m thinking of Sandra. And his potato wish. Which he still has. But that’s not why I want to leave. But I don’t know if or when or how it will break him. A situation I respect.

I grab my phone and text him:

“Should we seek professional advice on the potato thing? Ever couples therapy? I’ve never been in it. Neither do you. It would be a new, first time. We love first times. And we love each other. And wants us. Hot or not?”

“Is called”he is writing.

We’re coming, black couch! And then maybe we’ll talk about the fact that when I think of “black couch,” I have to think of porn.