I've been living in a loveless home for 18 months now.
It's true - no kisses.
My greatest love and I have been reduced to brief hugs, a peck on the head now and then.
I have to chase him around the kitchen table for the briefest show of affection - except of course when he's in the mood to simply pounce on me.
Even then the best I can hope for is drool and a fat lip.
OK - relax.
I'm talking about the Boy.
My darling Boy gave up kisses at the tender age of 2.
I don't know what soured the experience for him, but I've been missing his kisses for a long time now - after all, he's my baby.
I knew, one day, when he was 11 or 12 I could expect to be an embarassment to him (it is a family tradition I had committed myself to making the most of by wallowing in the cliches - yelling 'yoo hoo' across crowded school lawns, dropping him to school in my bathrobe, bringing him a packed lunch in class) - but at 2?
(In fact, one of my friends and I had plotted to marry our kids off to each other so we could spend our Christmases together for the rest of our lives and combine to embarass them all by getting drunk and singing at family functions - it's still a good plan.)
I blame all those grabby, brash women who would leap at my blue-eyed, blonde-headed darling from across crowded shopping centres.
"Oh he's so lovely!" They'd squeal.
Then he'd thrash in their arms and headbutt them and they'd get a better idea of what lay beneath the surface.
But today, for the briefest moment he leaned his soft, chubby cheek up against mine and clasped his strong little arms around my neck.
It was lovely - a 'madonna and child' moment.
I crowed with pride and joy to the Man - "Look! I got a kiss!" I announced.
"Oh no, Mummy," the Boy replied.
"I was just wiping my dribble on you."
Kids - who'd have 'em.
How about you guys?
Want one?
Only slightly used, although a little bit sticky and damp but nice to look at - from a distance.
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