The Boy’s school recently held an evening for boys and parents to discuss the physical and emotional changes that the boys were going to be going through over the next few years. I wondered how the evening would pan out. In our day being dragged into school one evening to discuss bodily changes whilst our parents were there would have been frankly mortifying. I think it would have been silence, followed by tumbleweed scooting over the hall floor. Luckily, kids these days are more open about discussing sensitive matters, and led by a fantastic nurse who had clearly heard it all before, we had a very useful and open discussion about what lies ahead. The nurse was excellent value, advising the lads that they are going to sweat. And that dealing with that did not involve simply lobbing a load of Lynx over the top. And that they needed a clean shirt every day, so must put their dirty ones in the laundry basket. And that the laundry basket was not synonymous with their bedroom floor. It was a good night then.

Except. Except it means that they are growing up. It means that I have to accept that I no longer have a cute little boy. The Boy and his friends are a good way off being official teenagers, but his two closest friends are already on eye level with me (and I am 5’6″) and they both wear size 8 shoes. Things are changing faster than I’d like and everything seems to be a constant renegotiation about what’s acceptable and what’s not. We seem to be accelerating towards adulthood. The future is daunting. It’s exciting too.