"This isn't working anymore," grinned my 10-year-old son as I struggled to carry him into his bed. Up on my hip, he towered way above me while his feet scuffed along the floor. My knees were buckling, my back was breaking and, just as I was about to hit the floor myself, he politely stepped down.

It certainly doesn't work anymore. Picking up my eldest child for a cuddle when he hurts himself, lifting him into his bed, carrying him when he gets too tired to walk any further - none of these options works anymore. Apart from the spectacle - Shirley Temple cradling Arnold Schwarzenegger astride her waist - the chances of either or both of us avoiding a serious injury are slim.

He is almost as tall as me now, weighs almost as much, and his body just isn't that fit-into-the-groove-between-waist-and-hip shape. Even a simple piggyback would put me into hospital at this stage. There is an endless supply of literature detailing how boys, from a very early age, stop getting affection from their parents. This is apparently very detrimental to their general development. They lose out on all sorts of important benefits of touch and miss out on one of the most straightforward ways of feeling loved. In a desperate bid to access some sort of affection, they resort to various types of violence - thump, kick, whack and slap each other around.

From the moment he was born, I was determined there would be no shortage of affection. I had plans for Boyfriend of the Year awards, Mr Ideal Husband, the Perfect Daddy. Tender, affectionate touch on demand was at the core of my parenting programme. The idea that this would stop when he hit his first decade was way out of the question. This child would be carried around, if he wanted, until he was 18 years old. Now what? It simply isn't possible, it "doesn't work", as he says himself. Do I give up? Resign myself to a palbattering son, and hope the early work pays off in later years?

One things for sure: if I go on carrying him around the place in a bid to nurture the ultimate tender man, he'll hate me.

There is a positive side - his t-shirts, jumpers, shirts and jackets fit me. Sharing his clothes is a nice, easy way to save money and become a super trendy-looking mum. Plus, he can still crush on to my lap for a bit of a hug.

And, well, he can always carry me . . .