As a writer, I get really attached to the men and women I create. Of course, they're nothing compared to the (eventual) man and woman I'm raising. My son is 6 and my daughter's 4, and I love them both dearly. It means a lot to me that my son has seen his dad be courteous to others and even help with the laundry, because hopefully he won't ever feel that it's un-masculine to do those things himself. (And to his future wife, you're welcome.)
What really cracks me up about my son is how he's a budding romantic but would rather suffer blood and gore than admit it. (Whenever there's a playground cry of, "I'm bleeding!" my son's response is, "I wanna see." And when he himself is wounded, he wants to show all his guy friends. He explained it to me once as, "We're boys, Mommy. We like gross stuff.") According to my son's reaction to one of my covers, my BOOKS are gross stuff. He calls them Mommy's kissing stories and makes gagging sounds.
And yet he was seriously off his game during the last soccer match of the fall because he kept sighing over the little blond girl on the opposing team. And when we recently rented the animated feature Happily n'Ever After (in which Cinderella's love for the prince blinds her to the attributes of a kitchen boy), my six year old wisely declares, "She should just decide to be with Rick. He REALLY loves her." My son even managed not to gag at the end when Rick and Cindy finally got their kiss.
It makes a mom so proud.