Still a kid at heart

I have, for a long time, been distraught at the speed with which the plum of my loins is aging. It seems like yesterday that he was sleeping on my chest, a mere three months old. Now he is an all-action, push-the-boundaries-if-I-can seven year old, and it all seems to have gone just a little too quickly for my liking. Bollocks.

So on the occasional moments when he remains a child, like turning the kitchen into a race track with his friend when I am cooking or Mrs Ottawacker is stocking the fridge, it is always good to not ask him to decamp to the basement, but to stand back and smile.

He's not an adult yet. Thank God.