There can be only one conclusion.
I have given birth to Norman Bates.
(I know, get me with my classic film references. Trust me: it'll only happen the once, and in fact it's only happened at all because I happened to watch that film during my A Level English Language classes in excess of 12 times. (There is a reason for this ... but it'll keep for another day.) )
Mr Jamie is PSYCHOTIC.
Obviously, we always knew that with a parent like me he was never going to be entirely of sound mind. Recently, however, things have reached a whole new level.
Like most small boys of around his age, he has an unnatural obsession with death. (At least, I'm assuming most small boys are like this. If not then I've got even more than I thought I had to worry about.) It is now impossible for him to see a picture of anyone on the news without enquiring "Are they still alive?" If the answer is in the negative, this is followed up immediately by "And how did they die? Who killed them?" Alarmingly, he's also taken to doing this with family photographs ...
I can cope with the death obsession, and I can live with the fact he spends half his life wielding a giant latex sword and axe (Neil is 100% to blame for this). Last night, however, on the drive home from nursery (which currently seems to be producing almost 100% of my blog material ... I'm not entirely sure what it is about my driving which inspires Mr Jamie so, but there you go), we got the following:
"What happens to you if you kill someone?"
"Well, you'd be in an enormous amount of trouble, and you'd go to prison for a very long time."
"What about if it was an accident?"
"You would still be in an enormous amount of trouble."
"What about ... if you got a big axe, and you chopped down a tree, and that tree fell onto someone's head, and then that killed them?"
"The principle is the same. Big trouble."
"But what if it was someone else's tree?"
While he may be on his way to becoming a serial killer, it's reassuring to know that there are some things which still phase even Mr Jamie. He accompanied me up to change Beth's nappy the other evening, and requested a look at her poo. Who am I to deny such a (freakish) request? I obligingly opened up her nappy for him and he craned his head forwards before recoiling in disgust.
"My GOD Beth. What HAVE you done?"