Ganged up on...

Philippa, with some input and support from Mathew, is pressuring me to get a dog. I think it's a terrible idea, and I said so. I also said I think it's a result of me not engaging with her idea to plan for a third child, but that may have been the wrong thing to say.

I thought I'd be on easy street at home with two sons. I thought the rest of my life would be a well-supported trip through a life where my wife was always outnumbered by residents of my own gender. I had forgotten that the bond between a mother and son is very, very special, and so, even at the age of five, Mathew is taking sides with his mum and looking at me as some scruffy idiot in the corner who just pops in occasionally but doesn't really hold a position of any importance.
It's hopeless, but it doesn't mean I have to cave in and agree to this latest whim that will irreversibly alter the dynamic of our house and commit us to a decade of expensive vet fees and long walks.

And the fact that I am currently indulging in a large hot chocolate and a pack of garibaldi has nothing to do with it at all. I am NOT comfort eating through the pain of feeling emasculated.

RC 3-3-24