With 3 boys under 6, Buggy Blogger mum to J (5), B (3) and S (1) certainly has her hands full. This week J’s blowing hot and cold on getting old.

"Aw man!" says J with the insouciance of a teenage dirtbag. The cause of his chagrin? Me of course.

My eldest is now officially in Year One and suddenly all grown up. He is … sob … too big to fit into the baby swings. His starter bike's beginning to look like a circus clown's prop. And I'm dreading facing up to the end of shorts season when I'll have to dig out his probably-not-quite-long-enough long school trousers. (Mental note to pop into M&S before the Back to School section is replaced with Christmas aisles. Next week then.)

As well as his physical surge (4cm all in the last weeks of the summer hols!) J's vocab seems suddenly to have aged. As well as "aw man!" there's also "aw mum!" (not sure when the "my" dropped out of "mummy" but it's definitely *my* loss). There's the arrival of … shudder … "wicked" and "cool", and we're not talking moral status or temperature. And, my personal worst, the onset of verbal violence – though luckily the nastiest so far is a lustily delivered "exterminade!" which sounds more like a joke shop prank you'd spread on your enemy’s toast than anything yet too vicious.

But juvenile antics aside, given the choice J's keen to distance himself from childish things. He can't hurry himself into marriage with SB soon enough. He wants to learn how the front car windows work so he can be sure of having acquired the knack by the time he's a daddy. And indeed he wants to become a daddy soon so that he can be the one making the rules. (Ah, now this is where he shows his naivety because of course in the real world it's mummy who makes the rules.)

Which brings me back to J's earlier gripe, derived from yours truly exerting her authority on the subject of getting his homework done. For yes, it seems that Year One has waved off the joys of water-pouring, bike-riding, paint-splodging free-play and beckoned in days of hard graft, evenings of after-school homework and … yikes … a weekly spell check. Our poor put-upon 5-year-old is stressing over his big-boy workload and is pining for Reception. (Major milestone this, the first time he WANTS to be younger … oh the sorrow of fading youth!).

And what of my feelings about my first-born baby growing up? Well, don't be fooled into thinking I spend all my time moping over his outgrown trouser legs. Sometimes I also find time to sniffle into his comfort beanie bear, brood over babyish words he's now forgotten and sigh at his gradually-mousening crop of once baby-blond hair.

And do I worry about his increased workload? You bet I do! Because J of course is a summer-born boy, a couple of weeks early at that, and it seems so tough on the wee chap to be already pushing him down that tough and rocky road aka the National Curriculum. OK, so he can now spell arm, card and farmyard but he still seems too small to be enduring weekly tests. "Too hard" I cry! "Aw mum … h. a. r. d." he sighs.

Forget teenage dirtbag. I want my J to still be what he's best at being for the moment – an unstressed, heedless squirt-of-a-lad.

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