There I was this evening, casually preparing supper , dodging the cat on the counter and chatting to an old friend when I found myself relating the story of how I, as a single teen mom was too broke to afford ice cream and so my go to comfort food became a humble bowl of oats with a tiny dollop of butter and a carefully rationed amount of sugar.
Oats!
I see you pull your nose and question my sanity.
However, I wasn’t alone in my oats journey. Many evenings, long after my daughter was bathed, fed and read to bed, I would meet one or two other teen moms on the thin passage way of our council flats and we would sit on small plastic children’s chairs , slowly eating our bowl of oats as we spoke about our days, our jobs, our children.
It was in those boiling bites of oats that we formed our villiage.
A villiage of teen moms, who knew each others struggles and made do with what they had.
Not once did we wish for anything more than our now traditional evening bowl of oats. Not even when one of had a slice of cake or some strawberries …for us the oats was so much more than a snack !
It had become a symbol of our friendship.
It bonded us.
It reminded us that we weren’t alone and more importantly, it became the reason to sit outside our door, listening for the faint sounds of a child calling mamma and remind us that in a world often to big for us, we had people we could rely on.
Many nights only one of us had oats and the others would swoop in with sugar and butter. Some nights a mom would need longer to put a child to bed, rock a sick baby or feed a child who had woken and we would prepare her bowl and take it to her.
I often miss those moments of simplicity.
The humble shared plate, the lessons we gained from each other and the friendships we formed.
Many times still, I find myself longing for the nostalgic moments of making a bowel of piping hot oats if the day has been long, the workload too big or the world larger than me.
I still cook it to the same consistency and add just a little butter and a carefully rationed amount of sugar …. even if my grocery cupboards are full.
You see it doesnt tast the same if i don’t. And it still brings that warmth of love I felt sitting on a cold passage floor in a thin blanket giggling with these women who had become my villi.
But
The villiage has changed over the years.
Its no longer consistant. It changes. It ebbs and it flows with the season and comes with expectations and responsibilities.
It no longer appears in its carefree whimsical tune but knocks softer at the door. It treads lighter, it shares less and often it is too busy to linger.
The villiage have grown.
They are no longer teenage girls dreaming impossible dreams for their lives, wondering how they were going to keep tiny humans alive. Now they are older women, with husband’s, kids and businesses.
This villiage don’t share humble bowls of oats.
They drink mimosas and champagne, meet for coffee or brunch. They cross t’s and dot i’s as they politely fumble through the Instagram selfies and the right conversation topics.
And so often as I get older, I long for the days where life was simple. Where friendships were so easily formed over a simple bowl of oats.
