Being a parent is a minefield. A minefield of warm, stickytoffee love, regurgitated biscuit kisses and the sweet smell of the tops of baby heads. It’s cuddles and snuggles and plates hurled in temper (his, not mine), slammed doors and stamped feet and being told you’ve got fat and you’re not pretty like the other Mamas in the school playground.
It’s that kind of minefield. Now, I consider I’ve done a pretty reasonable job of raising my son so far. We’ve had frank chats about gender, I let him wear what he wants within weatherappropriate reason, I don’t give a toss if he matches his socks. He flushes the loo, washes his hands, stands nicely in queues and gets through the day without biting people. We’re doing ok.