Funny old thing, innit, love?
Makes you feel all gooey inside. You ARE all gooey inside, whether you’re in love or not. Don’t think about it too much though. Urgh, nasty gooey people innards. Erm, anyway, when you’re all loved up and wotnot, the ever present gooiness is foremost in your consciousness, replacing whatever mundane crap it was you were thinking about beforehand. The latest episode of Hollyoaks. What you’re having for dinner. How awesome it would be if you could fly. All these things pale into insignificance when love is in the air.
It’s one of those things which, no matter how old and wise we may get, it can still creep up and confuse us, like a ninja with a book full of brain teasers. And if adults can find love a confusing thing, what chance to babies have? No chance, that’s what.
Now, you all know I’m a confirmed liberal, so I’m all for a bit of tolerance and acceptance when it comes to love. But there are certain things which are plainly still off limits. The loves which dare not speak their name. Forbidden loves.
I always knew that being a dad would bring with it new challenges, but I didn’t expect that barely a year into my parenting career I’d be having to think of a way to tell my son I didn’t approve of the object of his romantic feelings.
You see, Cam is smitten. Utterly smitten. She’s small, perfectly formed and wears a permanent smile. A little noisy at times, but utterly reliable and well known to the family.
She is also a vacuum cleaner.
They (who?) say you can’t help who you fall in love with, and Cam is living proof of that.
|Love is... a household appliance?|
Whenever Hetty (feminine sibling of Henry) comes out from her home under the stairs, my son is transfixed. He maintains a distance at first, having clearly inherited his father’s shyness. He looks on, rendered motionless by the intensity of his interest in the bright pink vision as she whisks about the living room carpet, feasting on the assorted detritus of our lives.
Eventually, he plucks up the courage to make contact, approaching her carefully and placing his hands on her. Sure, it would probably be more polite to start up a conversation, but when your vocabulary is limited to three words it can be a little difficult, especially if your conversational partner can only make a loud whooshing noise.
When the time comes for Hetty to return to the cupboard, he waves a sad goodbye and looks doleful for a few moments. Lucky for him, his attraction to inanimate objects doesn’t end at pink vacuum cleaners, he quickly moves on to something else: Mrs L’s hairdryer, a bedside lamp, the Xbox controller.
It’s all training for the eventual, inevitable, real deal sometime in the future. A time when I will lie awake at night worrying about him, worrying about what mistakes he may be making, thinking back to the (many) that I made.
I’m glad I don’t have to think about that for a while. I think it might make my brain melt.