Those who know me in person will tell you that I’m not the manliest of men. I put it down to growing up with two sisters, but the fact of the matter is that I’m not particularly gruff, or muscular, I can’t grow a full beard, and I’d probably feel more at home gossiping with a bunch of women than grunting about cars and protein with a load of hairy blokes.
You would expect this to translate into my two sons. The eldest is a lot like me; but I have no idea what happened to my three-year-old, because he’s manlier than I could ever be.
This morning he refused to get out of bed. No reason, just couldn’t be bothered. And then, when he did eventually drag himself off the bottom bunk he walked across the landing whilst scratching his bits and burping. He demands drinks, and sings like a hooligan. He runs up to you, puts his face about a centimetre away from yours, and yells ‘KISS ME THEN’, something which I worry will translate into his teens when he’s chasing girls and getting drunk.
He loves making noise, and smashing stuff about, and one of his favourite games is to take a toy car and push it off the edge of a table so it clatters on the floor and scares everyone else. He carries around a Spider-Man toy with him, and once he’s wearing his Superman costume it’s impossible to take it off him.
Perhaps in a step away from the stereotypical ‘manly man’, he cares about his image, so much so that he insists on having gel in his hair every day. If you put him in front of a camera, he’ll take selfies for hours.
He does poos and doesn’t flush. He doesn’t even care that he doesn’t flush. The other day he farted whilst watching TV and didn’t bat an eyelid.
It’s a strange circumstance, when your toddler is manlier than their own father. If he ends up being able to grow a full face of beard I’m going to get really jealous.