The boy takes me for granted, and I’m glad. It shows I’m doing something right.
I take him to school, and he runs in without a backward glance, taking it for granted that I’ll be back to pick him up later.
He announces, “I’m hungry,” taking it for granted that I will produce something for him to eat.
In the pool, he takes it for granted that I’ll be there to catch him when he realises he’s out of his depth.
He assumes that I will come to his school plays, open days, Mums’ lunches and sports days.
He tells me categorically that I am not allowed to come to school discos because I’ll embarrass him (taking it for granted that, if not expressly instructed otherwise, I would love nothing more than to stand in a room full of yelling, sweating, sugar-fuelled 8-year-olds with a deafening soundtrack of Gangnam Style, What Does the Fox Say or whatever the latest cool song happens to be on the day).
One or both of his parents can disappear for days on a business trip and he’s not phased by being left with just Mum, just Dad or, very occasionally, Grandma and Grandad. Takes it for granted that we’ll be back, you see.
Juggling work and home isn’t always easy. But you know you’re succeeding when you find yourself being taken for granted in the best possible way.