A toddler throws the ‘best friend’ title around like confetti.
The first time you hear it, you’ll swoon with blessed delight. It’s finally happening, your child has noticed how cool you are and has handpicked YOU to be her right-hand woman. You deserve it. You grew that child, you should get a best friend out of the deal. Oh wow, all the fun things you’ll be able to do together, babycinos at the cafe, gossip sessions in the park …
Until that title is ripped from you like an Olympian on drug charges.
Suddenly, the postman is also her best friend. Tony from next door’s dog is her best friend. That eyeless doll with gum in its hair is her best friend. With a sinking heart you realise the title might not mean as much as you thought. I won’t lie. It stings.
Although not as much as when the title is taken away because of some arbitrary grievance like saying no to the third cookie. ‘You not my bess fwend.’
It’s okay, little one, I’m sure the knife in my heart won’t leave a scar worse than the one from when they CUT YOU OUT OF MY BODY IN WHICH I GAVE YOU LIFE. No big deal.
True story: *Having a quiet cuddle with my son*
Son: Mummy, I really love you.
Me: *heart goes boom* Oh darling, I really love you too!
Son: You’re not my best friend though.
Me: …
Son: Daddy is my best friend.
Me: … but …
Son: I only love you.
Me: What about …
Son: JUST DADDY.