… my husband and my son. Son is now fifteen and can’t possibly be classed as ‘my baby’ any more (although it’s usually mum he runs to when he wants a cuddle or something’s gone wrong - as long as it’s not technical or maths homework, of course!).
Living with these two men is fine. It’s my life right now and I don’t know any different. But they’re a strange breed to live with, these male folk, aren’t they?
It seems as if I’ve gone from a house with husband and baby/toddler/child/adolescent to a home with two hulking great men - son is almost as tall as hubbie and his voice is probably deeper. Suddenly I have double the amount of massively long jeans to launder and the sock wash is endless.
I’m a ‘girlie girl’ and thankfully both husband and son are in touch with their feminine sides. Son gives the best back massages, has waxed my legs on a rainy afternoon (never again) and will quite happily clothes shop with me and pull the ‘disgusted face’ if I dare pick up anything which isn’t to his taste. No, he’s not gay - just very much like his father.
So, I count myself lucky that I don’t share with rugby playing, beer swilling, macho hooligans, but they’re still different.
MY SUGAR & SPICE v PUPPY DOG TAILS OBSERVATIONS
They can quite easily cack themselves over the same joke for hours on end - usually bottom, fart or wee related.
They can happily get out of bed, throw yesterday’s clothes on and feel that they’re ready to face the day. Husband doesn’t need a hairbrush (follicly challenged), son does but “Hey, that’ll do!”
They can play on the PS3 for hours on end. Shooting zombies, scoring goals, searching for hidden clues - you name it, they must succeed.
When playing Guitar Hero (me singing, son on guitar, husband on drums) it will always be me who wrecked it for everyone, despite the fact that I’ve been getting a perfect score all along.
They eat ridiculous amounts of ice cream. If there’s none in the house, things get nasty. Trust me, I’ve seen the look in their eyes if I stuff up on the shopping list.
They talk some sort of strange language around computers - RAMs and gigs and blobbidy jobs. My eyes tend to glaze over at this point and they know they’ve lost me.
When they get bored, they act daft. Usually at my mum’s house when it’s time to leave, they’ll start a strange kind of ritual involving punching and kicking. There can also be the odd nibble (read, bite) involved. Inflicting pain, preferably surreptitiously, seems to be the main item on the agenda and I sometimes wonder who’s the bigger kid, hubbie or son.
If I do well at any family activity - crazy golf, tennis, cricket or bowling it’s because I had a ‘good day’. If they win, it’s ‘down to talent’!
They’ll quite happily force me to sit through the torture of ‘Silent Hill’ or ‘The Mighty Boosh’ but, if I get my own way and suggest a RomCom, they’ll add sarky subtitles and squidgy kissing noises throughout the viewing.
They take forever to get ready. I know people say it’s the women who take hours but I’ve got it down to a fine art and, if we’re leaving the house at a certain time, I’m in the car ready to go. My men, suddenly decide that they need to iron a shirt, pack up the laptop or even have a bath.
And on the back of that last point, they leave everything to the last minute. I can’t deny that lots of thought goes into birthdays and Christmas in our house (we all make our own cards and they are very personalised), but you can guarantee that all their planning will still leave them with a last minute rush-job on birthday/Christmas Eve. All credit to them though - they will give the perfect gifts, beautifully wrapped. How they do it, I’ll never know.
So, no I’m not moaning about the men in my life - just pointing out the differences between us.
That tiny baby boy I brought home from the hospital all those years ago is now a grown-up in his own right.
And he has the right to drive me nuts with his father! I wouldn’t have it any other way.
You can buy my book “Diary of a Mummy Misfit” on Amazon for Kindle or PC. Now also available in paperback at Lulu. Read all about the daft yummy-mummies at a London prep school. Add a hint of Asian spice, a dollop of recession and a good helping of friendship and you’ve got the perfect read summer read.