Since the son came out...

...we've had a chat.

I'll leave the blog where it is, I'm hoping he'll get one of his own actually. We talked a lot about the value of a private space to put thoughts and feelings into, especially for people like me and him that don't really talk to real life people in that way.

The chat went on to content, me explaining how I never wanted him to know I think his dad is a prat etc then suddenly cringing and saying 'oh my god, there was sex stuff in there!' He replied, 'yeah don't worry mum, I scrolled past fast as soon as I saw the title and anyway, we all do it. Look, I won't read it again, it's your personal space and I'm sorry if I've taken something away from that but be assured, now I know what it's about, I'll respect it and stay away. '

As is the norm with a busy home the minute you need privacy some bugger walks in and, this moment being no exception, No 2 Son and Babygirl decide now is the time to rip their thumbs from the x-box controllers and head for the fridge.

We now have to talk in riddles in order to finish the conversation. My opening line isn't all that cryptic, in hindsight.

'We all do it? All? You're including yourself in that group of participants?'

'Er, hello! *points to self* Good-looking lad, clever, funny - lots of captains want me batting on their cricket team'

'Bloody hell. I mean, don't get me wrong, of course I assumed a few captains would want you on the team but I guess I thought you were more interested in beating (mates) snooker break than playing, er, cricket. Hell, I pick you up from snooker all the time but never from cricket. Crikey, babe; you're talking contact sport here, please tell me you wear the right gear for it? No professional that, er, valued his long-term career would think about playing without the right protective wear, they wouldn't take the risk'

'Oh please stop worrying, I've scored a few fours so far but I know where to buy the safety helmet to hit a six'

'I can't help but worry! Babe, it only takes one, er, injury and that's it; your whole future career ruined by some little sunday league amateur and you paying for it for the rest of your natural rather than playing to your full potential'

'Mum...'

'I mean, obviously I knew you liked sport and did practice drills and stuff but training for it or watching and actually stepping up to the crease are very different, you know? If you go batting without padding up and some manky bowler hits you the wrong way you could land up having physio, or worse...'

'Mu-um...'

At this point No 2 Son and babygirl finish snacking and happily disappear back upstairs to the land of shared giggles and RSI of the thumbs, having picked up that there's an opportunity to be exploited while I'm too mentally busy to make them read a book instead.

He hugged me and said

'Can we finish this in english now? Mum, I love ya and thanks and all that but really, I'm not stupid. I can get my own condoms. Wanna cuppa?'



God, I feel old. I know the sun ages the ol' skin but I never really realised how much a son could age the whole thing till that conversation. Nor did I understand just how aged yet strangely immature I could feel in comparison to this teenager that I gave birth to and have brought up alone for the majority of his years. I love that lad so much it stings, even if he does think my writing is too wordy!