Stubborn

He has already decided that adults don't have a clue and it is up to him to clear things up for them. I am lucky, in that Cliff and I are marginally exempt from this — or maybe it's just that we shout at him when it's blatant.

He's got the rolling eyes perfectly coordinated with the sigh of "yes, mom" that I really didn't think I was going to hear until he hit puberty.

"AND STOP THAT CONDESCENDING TONE OF VOICE!"

I feel an utter idiot, shouting this at a 4-foot-high little boy who shouldn't even know what the word means.

"Yes, Mom. Sorry, Mom."

He's worked it out, thank god.

I thought it was a good idea to make sure he was confident, independent. Able to stand up for himself and make his own way through. At ease with grown-ups and secure enough to state his own point of view.

Somehow I think I overdid it.

Cliff, at least, is allowed some measure of respect for being able to fix computer games and the satellite receiver. And even then Connor stands behind him, backseat driving.

"There's the icon, but nothing happens when you click on it. The CD is in there already, you don't need to check. You need to reboot now."

Until Cliff, who hasn't been told what to do by anyone except his mother in at least 30 years, finally shouts "I KNOW!" and Connor hushes up for about 30 seconds.

He talks to anyone, adult or child. You know that kid you see in restaurants and playgrounds who simply walks up to the others and says "Let's do this!" with no trace of shyness? That one is mine. Mothers smile at me as he tries to organise his own little gang and gently coerces everyone into playing what he wants to play. I visibly wince and try to avoid eye contact.

I can live with it with kids though. There is always a ring leader and he isn't making them miserable, just taking charge.

It's that adults don't seem much more difficult for him to handle.

In a taxi to the airport the driver got confused as Connor and Cliff spoke in Spanish to him (you have to jump in quick to keep Connor from giving directions) and then English to each other and to me.

"Are you Spanish," he asked Cliff.
"No," replied Connor. "I'm English, well, kind of English, and my mum is American and Cliff, that's Cliff, he's English, but he's not my dad, he just lives with my mum..."

It still takes me that long to get my hand clamped over his mouth. You'd think I'd know by now. The taxi driver is in hysterics.

Part of it is simply that he's quick-witted. Yes, there is a pride associated with knowing that my child is bright but god, does he abuse it.

Like the time his restaurant behaviour got so out of line I snapped at him.

"Do you want to go outside for a quick smack?!"
"Yes," he said defiantly.

I stand up and start dragging him out.
"But, I mean, no wait, mummy...."
"I asked, you answered. Come on. NOW!"
"But mummy..."
He pauses and I see a gleam in his eye.
"Mummy, I think I misunderstood?"
"Oh yeah? And what exactly did you misunderstand?"
"Well." He pauses again and then looks up at me hopefully. "Did you say big smack? Because I thought you said Big Mac."

Yes, I managed to keep a straight face, but only just. He got a much more minor smack (mainly because I was petrified I'd laugh, but also I guess because I respected his quick thinking in getting out of it) and dragged back to the table with a stern warning to stop such nonsense.

I loved it. But I also know this is how he is managing to get away with murder.

And that's the rub. People who meet him either see him as isolationist or charming: he tends to either ignore you or overwhelm you, there is no middle ground. And so until you have a fair amount of experience with him, you don't realise quite how stubborn or manipulative he is.

His childminder rolled her eyes at me when I tried to explain this. A faint touch of condescension at my "obvious exaggeration." It lasted about a fortnight.

She told him to stay sat at the table until he at least tried a bit of carrot to see how it tasted. He sat there (staring at the wall, refusing to speak to her) for two hours. She is the first childminder I've ever had who didn't break before he did; she got my undying admiration on that day. I also learnt the phrase for "stubborn little bastard, isn't he" in Spanish as an added bonus.

It doesn't help that his Spanish is still better than mine. The day we tried to find a parking spot at the beach. Cars bumper to bumper for half a mile, a vigilante trying desperately to gain order and to get people to back up enough to give the ones in front move to maneouver. He grumbles hello at us, we've seen him before and then walks past again saying something rapidly in an almost incomprehensible Andalucian accent.

"What did he say?" I ask Cliff, whose Castilian is fluent.
"I haven't the vaguest clue."
Small voice pipes up from the back.
"He said he's having a bad day and a word that kids aren't allowed to say."

I struggle not to ask him what the word is. His smile tells me that he knows I'm dying to know and will happily repeat it and translate it if I ask him. It takes willpower, but I win that round. A year later I am still wondering what the word was. Maybe he won.

Most things worked right. He's generally polite, he has decent restaurant manners if you kick him under the table, he does his homework eventually if you holler, and he gives me the loveliest hugs and kisses for no reason. When his mate pointed out it was Mother's Day, he froze in horror and then ran to the kitchen saying "I know what will make her happy!"

Three minutes later he walked up to me saying Happy Mothers' Day! with a beer in his hand. How can I not adore this child?

Now, if only he didn't grin so knowingly as I thanked him...