Responsibility is a funny thing in the Tscherpelini household. Our almost-grown-up son wants to have a say as an equal, my husband feels responsible for almost everything, and I somehow end up responsible for keeping the peace. What starts with a thirty-second Instagram Reel quickly turns into a family power struggle about control, competence and who gets the final word. Maybe the real problem isn’t too little responsibility – but too much of it.

Parenting, apparently, is our family sitcom’s longest-running plotline. How much control is necessary, and when is it time to let go? While my husband prefers to intervene before small problems become big ones, I tend to trust that things will work themselves out. Then our older son walks into the kitchen, listens to us argue and delivers the perfect line: “I feel like I’m in a sitcom, and today’s episode is called Letting Go.” Twenty years into parenting, the debate is still

My eldest son has moved back in with us – along with his handstand bars, weighted vest and tub of creatine. Since then, I’ve learned a lot about looksmaxxing, protein, Haaland’s diet and calisthenics. While he struts around the flat bare-chested and flexes his muscles, I observe his display behaviour with growing fascination. And realise that beneath all that testosterone, there is often still just a very large puppy.