My son *Finn was five years old when I overheard him mimicking the sound of a female orgasm similar to those featured in pornography.
It was school holidays, and he was playing handball with his eight-year-old brother and their friend on a handball court they’d drawn up on our front porch with rainbow chalk.
I was sitting inside within ear-shot working at my desk, their competitive shrieks and lighthearted squabbles about the rules and politics of handball made me smile as I typed.
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I love the endless energy and innocence of these little boys - always quick to laugh and full of unwarranted confidence and uncomplicated fun - so on this day; I was particularly smug. I’ve made it, I thought.
The tricky sleepless nights and endless nappy changes are over, and I can finally sit here and take some time out for myself whilst my children play independently outside.
And then I heard it. The sound of a high-pitched, over dramatised orgasm crescendo which disturbingly sounded like it was coming from my youngest son. That’s the thing with parenting - the moment you think you’ve mastered it; another bigger challenge is almost always upon you.