Can you watch me do this?

My son is intense. Once he wants your attention, he pulls you in and you’re not leaving until he decides. And 99% of the time, the person he needs is me. The person whose attention he wants is me. The moment he locks onto me, I’m already quietly planning my escape route because I know at some point I’ll need it. It sounds dramatic… and honestly? It is.

The other night his favourite football team was playing, and he asked if he could stay up to watch it. Of course he could. But I also knew what that meant: my relaxation window—8pm, my sacred moment—was about to be violently stolen. Because his version of “relaxing” is… well, not relaxing. Not for me. He came home from school, dropped his bag, and immediately launched himself onto his gym ball. This gym ball by the way is the best £6 I’ve ever spent in Argos. I’m talking world-class entertainment. Here is is….

He bounces on it.
He rolls on it.
He jumps on it.
We throw it to each other—he especially likes it when it hits him in the face. (The joy. The laughter. The absolute chaos.)
And now he’s practising backflips on it. Rolling backwards on it, flipping over, landing on his feet. Again. And again. And again.

And obviously… he wants me to watch.

Not the normal kind of watching where you can blink, breathe, or have human needs.
I mean watch with full eye contact, full attention, full engagement.
No glancing at your phone.
No stirring the tea.
No looking away for even a molecule of a second.

And the commentary begins….even if I am watching…

“Can you watch me do this?”
“Watch this!”
“Are you watching?”
“Watch me!”
“CAN you watch me do this?”

So there I am, eyes glued to him like a hostage mascot, as the clock edges closer to his usual bedtime… except he’s staying up for the football. And I’m thinking, just get to kickoff and maybe—maybe—I will get five minutes of peace.

But no. He disappears to his bedroom and returns with a “fan.” Not the type that blows air—although he did get one of those later too, because… sensory reasons. He likes to collect an audience: teddies, ornaments, football cards. Anything with eyes becomes a spectator. But just one. He only ever has one fan watch him and me. It’s a fascinating process. This time he brings a toy crocodile, sits it on my knee, and announces that every time he lands a backflip on his feet I must shout—in my best crocodile voice…

“WOW, EXQUISITE!”

A crocodile voice. Saying “exquisite.” I don’t know where he even learned that word. So I’m there, a grown woman, a tired grown woman screaming “WOW! EXQUISITE!” like a posh crocodile while watching a child somersault into oblivion—still not blinking because he keeps checking…