The  boychild has recently taken to grabbing certain parts of my anatomy, squeezing them like ripe melons and laughing demonically as he does so. It’s like something straight out of the Benny Hill Show. Except the tata-grabbing Benny Hill, in this case, is a four year old boy, and the “dumb blonde” is moi.

“This must have to do with the fact that I’ve been breastfeeding,” I tell myself, squelching the silent subtext of “Is my son a complete perv??” While hubby laughs and imagines us teasing the boychild about it when he’s 14, I inwardly pray he’ll grow out of it by then.

Now it’s time for a true confession. All those years ago, when I found out that I was preggie with the boychild, amidst fantasizing about how we’d laugh among the trees together and how he’d hug my apron as I whipped up home-made breads in the kitchen all day, I also imagined a high-school aged boychild  bringing round his friends who wanted to hang out with his hot mum. Yes, I’m a narcissist. I would be the alluring Mrs. Robinson, effortlessly dressed in figure-hugging cashmere dresses simultaneously whipping up constant trays of chocolate-chip cookies.

Tangent: We all want to remain attractive women, don’t we? Just because we’re mothers doesn’t mean we have to let ourselves go. And though I usually feel like a stubbly-legged, clog-wearing disaster, I derive immense pleasure from dolling up – a long bath followed by applying make-up and wearing an actual dress. And feeling like I still don’t look half bad. Wish this happened more often (sigh.)

Anyhow, I suppose my point in revealing my Mrs. Robinson fantasies is that I’ve certainly indulged in a certain level of hoping that my son will think I’m pretty one day.  I know I sound like a high school girl, but is that so wrong?

I think not.

But I can categorically say – I never asked for this slapstick tata-grabbing!  Cue soundtrack: