I heard recently that boys learn boyhood from their fathers once they turn six. Good news for mothers. For the next five-and-a-bit years, he’s mine.

We stick together these days, Henry Jeffcoat and me. Sometimes I feel like we create our own kingdom, here on the first and second floors, where we understand things perfectly. We have decided that bathtime means squirting him with water on his front, but only on his front and only while making a hippo noise. You can only go as far as the three blue plums in ‘The Very Hungry Caterpillar’, but ‘Where’s Spot’ should be read twice through before you’ve done it properly. He can hold the bottle by himself, now, but he still wants you to look at him while he drinks it.

Putting him on your shoulders is so exciting he will scream into your ear.

He’d prefer it if you vacuumed all the time, thank you very much.

He knows when he’s being silly, but he likes to hear it from you.

I could keep it like this forever, I think.


Talk to me! I'll put the kettle on.

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