Regular readers of this blog will know that I live with one of my two boys during the week, and the other the following week. I have both at the weekend, every other weekend. It works for everyone, my estranged husband is fully involved with their care, they get a lot of individual attention, and everyone is happy.
It's like living with a partner, in a way. Only better.
My little boy's personal hygiene is impeccable. I taught him.
He will eat virtually anything, and compliment me regularly on my cooking. And I know he is not lying to please me.
He will wear what I wish him to wear (well, up to a point. I have not persuaded him that the Simpsons PJs are not really that cool).
He will not stamp his feet on the passenger well every time I am going too fast round the corner, or comment on my driving. There has been the occasional 'papa' says that you do not pay any attention to the road, other cars or your own', but that is second-hand behaviour and I take no notice.
He will go to bed and read only if I ask him to.
He will look at me in my purple dressing gown and glasses, smile and tell me I am beautiful.
We will discuss cars, and he will ASK for my opinion rather than dismissing it.
He makes me breakfast, at least occasionally. Not coffee yet, but then again boiling hot water, a kettle and a small child are not items to mix carelessly.
If we sleep together, either because he is feeling fragile, or because I am, he will never push me away, or kick me and hiss 'you are snoring'.
He will get off the table and kiss me for the hell of it. Chocolate sauce notwithstanding.
He will NEVER say he is tired.
He will be protective of me without embarrassing me.
He will make me paper airplanes called 'Mamma Force One'.
Mind you, I still wipe his bottom.
It's lovely to be needed, isn't it?
