When I tell friends how happy I am that my son now closes doors, fetches objects and turns off lights, those without kids look at me as if I’m a cruel, petty tyrant. When I tell friends with kids, they simply ask, ‘When? When does this happen? Roughly?’
Perhaps it’s because our baby daughter is so comically, tragically helpless that my son’s newfound usefulness seems so sweet. He’s not very helpful with her, you understand. It’s just I can forgive him squeezing her head and pulling her around the sofa by her ankles, if he continues to pass me beers, place his own dirty clothes in the washing machine and, joy of joys, hand me pegs when I put the sheets out to dry on the washing line. Twice this week he’s asked – begged – to help me set the table, and he’s taken to cleaning my shoes with the zeal of someone who is much, much better at cleaning shoes than he is. ‘Thank you,’ I say, wiping something I very much hope to be yoghurt from his tongue.
