This morning at the breakfast table Boychild purposefully placed his cutlery on the side of his plate and said - if you were sick on a helicopter you could just stand up and lean out of the window - then carried on eating. Where do such comments come from, I wondered. He will be six on Easter Sunday, and I've finally arranged his party. He doesn't want any girls (pronounced gels) there, including his sisters. He used to like playing with girls as well as boys. He's changing, and I have very little control over the process, sadly. He won't let me kiss him any more, and if I manage so lamp one on him by surprise he grimaces and wipes his face with such vigour you could be forgiven for thinking he'd been hit by a rotten egg.
There is an upside to this: Jack used to join in with Spouse in "totty watch" whilst driving past the university on the school run. Thankfully his new dislike of all things female has taken the pleasure out of admiring scantily clad young women. And as long I promise not to kiss him, he still loves a cuddle.
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