Its mine, all mine

We live with my mother. When you stop laughing, this does have benefits. Sure, most days its hard to say these overide the gross infringements on privacy and the relentless suffocating sense of being sixteen even though I am completing my Masters, hold down a full time job, pay bills, have a great marriage and have produced two children yet to show any major psychotic tendencies. But the kids love her and it means I can duck out to shops or attempt a social life without the prohibitive costs of a hired babysitter. But... and maybe this is due to the maternal breeding patterns of over-protectiveness, I was filling a bit under the weather this evening and AB, bless him, has made me custard. (an aside: after telling him I wasn't feeling particularly loved the other day - remember the not-sharing-the-chips-tirade there's been a whole lotta lovin'). And I'm not sharing. She's currently pretending to be teaching my children, but I know she's loitering for proper-made-by-a-chef custard. And I'm here to say, that lovefest of cream and egg yolks is mine, all mine.