With 3 boys under 5, there’s never a dull moment. Certainly never a quiet one… Buggy Blogger mum to J (4), B (3) and S (1) enjoys a bit of horsing around.

If I were a gambling woman, I'd be prepared to bet that encouraging one's offspring to have a flutter on the gee gees probably doesn't feature in the better parenting handbooks.

But what the heck, living life in the fast lane we decided to risk an introduction to the nation's favourite punt. After all, watching the Grand National was always a family institution when I was small. And though I'm still scarred by my 1980-something experience of backing Snowtown Boy who crashed out at the first fence, I had a hunch the boys would enjoy the thrills, spills and 'ouch-I-can't-look' grimaces associated with Aintree.

For B especially, it was odds-on he'd be smitten. He would happily spend entire summer holidays lolloping up and down the beach on a donkey. He thinks the highlight of large public events is the appearance of the police horses, and he's insisted on equine birthday cakes two years on the … ahem … trot. So the chance to wallow in an afternoon of horse after horse after horse after horse had his name on it before we'd even begun.

And sure enough, he soon proved to be a fan. What after all could be more exciting than being allowed to switch on TV in the middle of the afternoon? Only then to feast your eyes upon ... how's this for a combo … untold ranks of ambulances and police horses all in the same place! Awesome…

Then as if things couldn't get any better, some other horses turned up to muscle in on the action. These ones did a bit of parading around to show the boys in blue a thing or two. Then they faffed around a bit. Followed by some more faffing. And then they were off!

The runners surged out and the competitive spirit within us was unleashed – who could shout the loudest; who could jockey themselves closest to the TV; whose horse had the best name; who could fathom out first where the heck their horse was… I'm telling you it was dog-eat-dog in here. And that was just the grown-ups.

The boys meanwhile were doing their best to out-talk the droning commentator. From start to finish we were barraged with a trillion questions – 'where's my horse?'; 'why's that one got no man?'; 'where are they running to?'; 'why have they stopped?'; 'why are the mans cuddling each other?' and so on.

And when the race was finally over, there was an audible sigh of parental relief – a lull in the torrent of questions and relief that no-one's horse had actually came good. Just imagine, it would've been curtains to train-track building as the Saturday afternoon past-time of choice. Why waste time on points and level crossings when you could be indulging in a bit of fail-safe pocket-money speculation instead?

Mind you, I'd do well not to count my chickens. Rather than brushing off the experience in a fit of sour grapes, B's desperate to go back over the race with anyone who cares to listen – 'my man fell off', 'J's horse stopped', 'mummy's horse didn't come out' (hilariously I backed a non-runner) and 'my share my horse with mummy'. A sweet idea in theory though I wonder if he'd have stuck to the story had his 100-1 choice romped home victorious.

So, despite not cashing in with beginner's luck, it looks like B's imagination has been well and truly captured. Crumbs, I'd better keep a firm eye on the boy before he gets properly hooked. From now on I'm going to hustle everyone quickly past every branch of William Hill, the toy binoculars will be discreetly junked and I'm confiscating the piggy bank until I'm quite sure no-one's going to splurge the lot on the next guaranteed dead cert.

Dead cert, my ass (horse?). The only thing that's certain is that B will be demanding another horsey cake for his 4th birthday party. Forget the Mafioso-style nag's head that I knocked up for his 2nd. Forget the churned-up pony paddock I did for his 3rd. This time he'll want the real McCoy – an all singing and dancing Grand National cake complete with Bechers Brook, the Canal Turn and a string of tiny runners.

Oh and a liberal sprinkling of ambulances and police horses too, of course.

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