The inability to do two things at once starts early. It’s impossible to watch a Dr Who sonic screwdriver battle and drink your milk.
My children don’t have much concept of stranger danger. The newspaper I sometimes put in an appearance as a subeditor held what passes for a Christmas night out in these streightened times. I came home in time to narrowly avoid turning into a pumpkin, but the Panther of News and his chums stayed out. Having missed the last train to Falkirk (no really, not a euphamism) a chum stayed in the spare room. Next day he appeared from the corridor and made me jump. Much hilarity. Then Boy One said: “Who’s he?” And after I explained he said: “Oh. I thought it was just some boring businessman.”
What? And it’s funny that one would be wandering about the house making me jump?
We find our own way language of affection. Boy Two said: “I really like it when you call me Honey Bun, mummy.”
“It makes me feel all nice.”