I have a photographic memory.
I can recall exactly what chores my 13 year old had to do when she was aged seven.
I can remember the ages each of my five daughters had to start emptying the dishwasher, making their own lunches and ironing their own school uniforms.
I know how much spending money each was allocated on family holidays, how many dances they were allowed to go to each term, how much time they were allowed on MSN, Facebook now SNAPCHAT and at what age they paid for themselves to go to a movie.
I am also a clairvoyant.
I can predict when each of my children will be paying their own mobile bills, board and vacuuming their own rooms.
Okay, maybe I can’t really read the future, maybe I don’t have incredible recall.
But what I do have is a extremely pretty, nice swirly-print-covered, red book with all of that information written in it.
Why?
Because I have no clue if the seven year old had to start feeding the dogs a year earlier than the eldest.
I’m really fuzzy about whether the first born was allowed to go to a school dance once or twice or even three times a term and I don’t remember saying, “You can get your first iPod when you leave primary school.”