An illustrated letter about keeping your hands free

AT 68, I LOST MY HOUSE KEYS AT THE PLAYGROUND FOR THE THIRD TIME. MY DAUGHTER SAID, "MUM, YOU DON'T NEED A BETTER HANDBAG. YOU NEED POCKETS."

Since the start of the school year, I've looked after my grandchildren two afternoons a week. Archie is six and believes every tree was planted for him to climb. Lily is four and believes every puddle is a personal invitation.

I adore those afternoons. I wouldn't give them up for anything. But I'll tell you something nobody warns you about when you become the after-school grandmother.

You need four hands, and you only have two.

One hand for Lily, who must be held across every road. One hand for Archie's school bag, his drink bottle and whatever treasure he's found on the way out of the gate. And then, somewhere, my own handbag, my phone, my house keys, a packet of tissues and a banana that nobody will admit to wanting until the very moment we're furthest from a shop.

Three weeks ago, at the playground near their school, I put my keys down on the bench "for one second" so I could lift Lily onto the monkey bars. When we got home, they weren't in my bag. They weren't in the pram basket either. They weren't anywhere.

It was the third time this year.

My daughter Claire came to collect the children that evening and found me on the front step, waiting for the locksmith, with Lily asleep against my shoulder and Archie eating the forgotten banana.

"Mum," she said, very gently, as you'd speak to a nervous horse. "What happened?"

I explained about the bench. The monkey bars. The second that turned into the keys disappearing forever.

She sat down beside me on the step and was quiet for a moment. Then she said something so obvious I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time.

"Mum, you don't need a better handbag. You need pockets."

THE HANDBAG I KEPT BLAMING

I'd been blaming the handbag, you see. For months.

First I thought it was too big. Things sank to the bottom and vanished. So I bought a smaller one, and then nothing fitted in it, and I ended up carrying a second bag for the children's things.

Then I tried a little cross-body bag, the kind the young mums at the school gate wear. It kept swinging round to the front every time I bent down to do up a shoelace, and on one memorable occasion Lily used the strap as a steering wheel.

I even tried one of those zipped belt bags. I'll say no more about that, except that Archie told his teacher his Nan "wears a banana on her tummy," and I've never quite recovered.

Each time, the problem was the same. My hands were full. Whatever bag I carried got put down. And whatever got put down, at the playground, at the bakery, beside the swings, had a good chance of not coming home.

THE THING MY DRESSES WERE MISSING

After Claire went home that night, I opened my wardrobe and checked something I'd honestly never thought to check.

I counted the pockets.

Eleven dresses. One had pockets, and they were so shallow a lipstick fell out if I sat down. Six pairs of trousers. Four had pockets, all of them the tight little front kind you can just about squeeze a tissue into if you breathe in.

No wonder I was putting things down. There was nowhere to put them.

And here's the bit that made me cross. My husband, Graham, God rest him, had every pair of trousers he ever owned fitted with pockets deep enough to carry a hammer. Nobody ever told him he needed a handbag. He just put his keys in his pocket and went about his day.

Somewhere along the way, I'd accepted that women's clothes simply don't do that. That pockets were a luxury, not a basic. And at sixty-eight, chasing two small children around a playground in the spring sunshine, I'd finally had enough of accepting it.

WHAT I ACTUALLY NEEDED

So I sat down with a notepad, the way I used to plan the week's meals, and wrote a list.

Pockets, obviously. Real ones, deep enough for keys and a phone, that wouldn't spill when I crouched down.

Cool. Perth spring afternoons can be properly warm by October, and the playground has precious little shade. I'd been coming home sticky and red-faced more often than I'd like to admit.

Easy to move in. I crouch, I kneel, I push swings, I hoist Lily onto things she shouldn't be climbing. Anything tight across the hips or short at the hem was out of the question.

Washable. Between sunscreen, banana and the occasional puddle, anything I wore to the park would be in the machine by nightfall.

And, if possible, something that didn't look like I'd given up. I didn't want to collect the children looking as though I'd come straight from cleaning out the shed.

FINDING THE KWANI

I'd ordered from Perth Boutique before, so that evening I looked through their dresses with my list beside me. For once, I didn't look at the colours first. I looked at the pockets.

And there it was. The Kwani Easy Casual Flow Dress.

It's a simple, relaxed midi dress with a round neckline and short sleeves. But what stopped me were the pockets: two of them, big and deep, sitting on the front of the skirt where you can't possibly miss them. In the photographs, the skirt is gathered into soft folds at the front, which gives it a relaxed, slightly rounded shape rather than a straight, plain line.

The listing says it's made of 100% cotton and describes it as soft and breathable. It also says the pockets are deep enough for a phone, keys and lip balm, which was so precisely my problem that I laughed out loud on my own in the lounge room.

It comes in black, orange, green and beige. I chose the beige, because I thought it would go with everything, and because sand and sunscreen are both rather forgiving on beige.

THE PARCEL ON MY BED

It came on a Monday, which was perfect, because Tuesday was a grandchildren day. I opened the box on the bed and shook the dress out.

The first thing I did, before I'd even looked at it properly, was put my hand into one of the pockets.

My whole hand went in. Up past the wrist. I actually said "oh!" out loud, to nobody.

Then I fetched my house keys, my phone and a lip balm, and put them in, exactly as the listing said. Keys in the left, phone and lip balm in the right. They sat at the bottom, deep in the pockets, and nothing peeked out over the top.

The cotton felt soft in my hands, more like a well-washed favourite than something brand new. And the beige was a warm, creamy shade, like milky tea, rather than the cold grey-beige I'd half feared.

HOW IT ACTUALLY FIT

I'll be honest with you, because I'd want you to be honest with me. I'm sixty-eight, my middle has made itself comfortable over the years, and I have no interest in clothes that pretend otherwise.

The listing doesn't include a size chart, so I chose my usual size. If you're unsure, I'd suggest asking the shop before you order. In my usual size, it fit comfortably.

The listing describes it as an A-line fit that skims rather than clings, and that matched my experience. It doesn't grip anywhere. The round neckline is comfortable and easy, the kind you pull on over your head without a second thought, and the short sleeves cover the tops of the arms without being fussy.

The skirt is the clever part. Because it's gathered into folds at the front, around the pockets, it has room in it. I could crouch down to Lily's height, kneel on the grass, and swing my leg over the edge of the sandpit without hitching anything up.

On length, it's a midi. On my five-foot-five frame, it came down to around mid-calf, which meant I wasn't worrying about the hem every time I bent over to retrieve a runaway ball.

And the pockets, I'm pleased to report, behaved themselves completely. Even when I crouched, my keys stayed put.

TUESDAY AT THE PLAYGROUND

On the Tuesday morning, I hung the dress by the shelves in my bedroom while I made my tea, then put it on, filled the pockets and headed off to the school gate.

Left pocket: house keys and the little car key. Right pocket: phone, lip balm, a folded tissue, and three dried apricots in a paper bag, which I'd learnt is the cheapest form of crowd control known to grandmothers.

No handbag. For the first time in years, I walked out of my front door with nothing in my hands.

It was a properly warm spring afternoon, the kind Perth does so well in late October. Bright sun, blue sky, the magpies quietly sizing everyone up from the top of the fence. I collected Archie and Lily, took one small hand in each of mine, and walked them to the playground.

I can't tell you what a difference it made. Both hands, for both children. When Lily wanted lifting onto the climbing frame, I lifted her. When Archie needed his shoelace tied, I knelt down on the bark chips and tied it. When the apricots were demanded, they came out of my pocket like a magician's rabbit.

The cotton was cool in the sun, just as the listing promised. I didn't come home sticky. I didn't come home red-faced. I came home, I'll have you know, with my keys.

Halfway through the afternoon, one of the young mums I'd seen at the school gate sat down next to me on the bench. She'd been watching me fish a tissue out of my pocket for Lily.

"I'm sorry," she said, "but are those real pockets? Proper ones?"

I showed her. I put my hand in up to the wrist, and she laughed and said, "That's the dream." Then she asked where the dress was from, and I told her.

For the first time in months, I came home from the playground with everything I took there, including both grandchildren.

THREE THINGS I LEARNED

Sometimes the problem isn't what you think it is. I'd spent months blaming my handbag. I bought three different ones. The real problem was never the bag. It was that I had nowhere else to put things, so the bag ended up on every bench in the suburb.

Proper pockets aren't a luxury. Men have had them forever, deep enough for keys, wallets and the odd screwdriver. There's no reason a woman of sixty-eight, minding small children in the sunshine, shouldn't have the same.

Comfortable doesn't have to mean careless. I'd half assumed that a practical cotton dress would make me look as though I'd given up. Instead, the soft folds in the skirt and the warm beige made me feel relaxed and put-together at once.

ABOUT THE PRICE, PLAINLY

I'm careful with money, and now that I've bought three handbags this year, I'm feeling more careful than usual. So here is exactly what I know.

When I'm writing this, the Kwani is listed on Perth Boutique at $69.99 AUD, the same price in every colour and size. The listing shows a regular price of $179.00. I can't speak for that higher figure, only for what I paid, which I thought was fair for a dress I'm now wearing twice a week.

It comes in sizes S through to 5XL and in black, orange, green and beige. There isn't a size chart on the listing, so if you're between sizes it's worth getting in touch with the shop first. Delivery was free, sent with Australia Post, and the shop lists a money-back guarantee. Do read their Returns & Refunds page before ordering, so you know exactly where you stand.

When I think of what I spent on three handbags that didn't solve anything, not to mention the locksmith, I'd call it money well spent.

WHAT I WOULD TELL YOU IF WE WERE FRIENDS

If we were sitting together on a bench at the playground, watching small people fall off things, I'd tell you this.

Don't let anyone, including yourself, tell you that being a little forgetful is just "getting older." Some of it might be. But a great deal of it is simply having too much to carry and nowhere to put it.

We spend so much of our lives making room for everyone else. Room in the car, room at the table, room on our laps. It's all right to want a little room for ourselves, even if it's just two deep pockets at the front of a cotton dress.

And if you're an after-school grandmother like me, with two small hands to hold and a banana that nobody wants until they do, you'll know exactly what I mean.

I spent months buying better handbags. All I really needed was somewhere to put my hands, and my keys.

With love from Perth,
Maggie