My two year old looks like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. You know the type - hair so blonde it sometimes looks almost translucent, clear blue eyes and sweet squeezable cheeks. People quite often offer to take him home. 'Go right ahead,' I say.
He may look sweet but he has an iron will and takes an irrational pleasure in exercising it all over me.
Take baking. I like it and if I'm honest I like that slightly smug feeling of assembling lunch boxes with healthy home made things and airily producing freshly baked biscuits as friends walk in the door.
My five year old wolfs down anything I make. The two year old does not. Won't touch it and even has a new word for it, 'eeergh.'
Last week I saw him eyeing off another kid's home baked biscuit at the school gate. Traitorous little...
Hang on, that mother has put sprinkles on top. When we got home I baked and sprinkled hoping I might win one round.
Then he ate the sprinkles off the top and threw the biscuit on the ground.
Round 4,321 to him.
(At this point do I have to point out that of course I love him and am honestly not giving him away? At least not yet.)
