I know I spoil my boy.
I know; you do not have to tell me. But let me just say loud and clear: I do not squeeze his spots.
That mother in Loughborough who lavished £10,000 of her retirement dosh on treats for her lad - a boy so pampered she even pops his pimples? She fair takes my breath away.
Why the heck has she not bothered to get him any Clearasil?
Come on; keeping the little glass shelf in the bathroom free of toothpaste smears and crammed with every Proctor & Gamble product a family could need is virtually in a mother’s job description.
At least, sons think it is.
The tone in which the light of my life informs me we’ve run out of deodorant... or toilet roll.. or bread... it most definitely implies reprimand.
Has he ever brought a toilet roll into this house? Are you having a laugh? It is MY duty to ensure everything is on hand when he bouncy-trounces in from university.
The first thing he does is open the fridge door and gaze in. He complains if it is stocked with vegetables, salad, eggs and similarly sensible sundries rather than the fatty little titbits university students can’t afford to buy for themselves - unless they get out of bed in time to hit the supermarket five minutes before it closes and wipe out the reduced cabinet,
Thankfully, though, these days the arrival of the 6ft 2in Tigger is laundry-free. He drops it at my mother’s en route, having been implored to do so (really - no joke) by the woman who light-heartedly christened him Little Lord Fauntleroy when he was nowt but a scrap.
I would like to blame her for the fact that he’s been living up to the monicker ever since, but I know it’s mostly my doing. It’s genetic. It’s what doting mums of sons do without ever knowing why. And our boys milk the phenomenon for all they are worth.
I let him off Mother’s Day this time. Well, poor thing, he had two huge uni projects to finish by Monday morning. And today, he’s heading off on a charity bike ride all the way from Leeds to Paris. He’s so clever; he’s the one driving the back-up van.
Though I have suggested we have Mother’s Day 2; The re-make when he gets back and requested he brings me something posh, Parisian and girly (I do hope he doesn’t misconstrue).
Bloke’s eyes often roll to the ceiling when Boy is back in town. “He pulls your strings and you jump,” he chunters, jealous because I don’t for him.
Yet when we got to his mum’s on Mothering Sunday, the first thing he did was dive into the little dish of Quality Street on the sideboard and nick all the purple ones.
“She only puts them there for me,” he said, in a voice rich with smugness and caramel. Then he sat down and tucked into her freshly-brewed coffee and some chocolate teacakes. His parting gift to her? A pair of socks he wanted darning. Seriously.
When we got to my mother’s, at least I switched the kettle on and cut the chocolate cake she had made especially for us on her special day.