Actually, make that MILF my arse, given my tendency towards pedantry. I know ass is more phonetically authentic, but really, must we bring donkeys into the fray? And one is not American, you know.
But to MILF, which – for the benefit of those whose lives are undoubtably richer for not having watched American Pie – refers to a Mom I’d like to F…., yes, that word.
Despite the crudeness of the language, I recognise that this term has some appeal. If I’d spent years dragging a batch of snotty kids up through childhood I too would like to feel I’d succeeded in doing so without turning myself into a beige-hued, slanket-wearing husk. Not that looks are everything, most definitely not, but y’know, people like to feel good about themselves and MILF status may well do that for you.
But for reasons of plain factual accuracy, it does not do it for me. I have, you see, no offspring. No kids. No babies, toddlers, tweenagers or ‘yoofs. To wit, I am not a mom.
So you see, dear sweet little 22 year old boy, calling me ‘one hot MILF’ was perhaps not the best idea you’ve ever had in your short life. Believe it or not, we women don’t all get handed a baby ration at the age of 30. If it’s a Mrs Robinson experience you’re after, by all means, go for it little cub, you’re kinda cute, but perhaps leave the other kids out of it; they merely highlight the deficiencies of your age.
PS I don’t have any lullabies to hand for baby boy, but inspired by my most recent relationship disaster (yes, I’m still on about that) I decided to indulge myself in a little musical therapy recently. It’s got guitars, reverb, and me belting out stuff about betrayal. Cathartic. Check it out. If you want to.