My home is full of males.

They are an odd species, highly competitive, exercise/sport mad, messy, smelly, charming, loving and demanding of my time.

From the dog to the boy to the husband they all love strokes; back strokes, head strokes, arm strokes. If they see me sitting still the expectation is it’s their turn for strokes. I never make it through a family movie night with my hands quiet and to myself. Each gets jealous when they see the other enjoying the strokes they believe are theirs by right. Craig frequently tells Roscoe to find his own woman. Roscoe will physically sit on me to prevent me stroking his Dad, (cue “cross Dad”) and the dog, who wins out the most, uses his muzzle to move my hand, or if he sees me stroking Roscoe, uses his 86lbs to jump up on the boy, breaking the connection. I’m only now  realising the dog and the boy use the same physical action to get me to focus on them instead.

Most of the time I don’t mind the stroke demands. I find it amusing that the jealous, competitive streak in each of them manifests itself when they see others are getting strokes.

Naturally I would love to receive similar. Craig delivers them grudgingly if we are wearing clothes and Roscoe looks at me as if I’ve grown another head when I ask for a foot or head rub. The dog, well he focuses on looking helplessly beautiful with his deep, chocolate, puppy eyes.

It’s obvious that if I want strokes, I need to pay a professional. But trying to explain I don’t want a massage, I just want strokes makes me seem like a needy child.

Which is, of course, what I’m living with at home.