I love my children but that does not render me blind to their true nature. Children (I pray it's not just mine?) are capricious, mischief making sprites. If we're talking Freud, they are pure id; seeking instant and immediate self gratification no matter whether you are in the middle of driving around the M62, on the toilet, or in the process of actually paying for the toy they have begged and pleaded for only for them to turn on a sixpence and loudly advise the whole shop that you are a horrible mummy because you won't buy the sweets positioned exactly at child height right next to the till.
It's not the nicest word but it bears pointing out that the first definition of parasite is:
Biology An organism that grows, feeds, and is sheltered on or in a different organism while contributing nothing to the survival of its host.
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The second definition is:
One who habitually takes advantage of the generosity of others without making any useful return.
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Ring any bells?
Somedays I honestly think that my children will not be satisfied till they have sucked the money, life and joy out of me. 'Till I am a shrivelled, dried out husk of a person blown by the wind until I am hanging by fingertips from the cliff face of poverty and insanity, at which point they will gently but firmly stand on my fingertips with a smile on their face until I have no choice but to let go and fall into the abyss....
But that's just half term for you.
Anyhow look how cute they are. They are worth it.
*spoken through gritted teeth and a second large glass of red wine*
