With 3 boys under 6, Buggy Blogger mum to J (5), B (3) and S (1) certainly has her hands full. Stuff the hands though, this week we’re focusing anatomically elsewhere.

'Mummy,' pipes up B at the poolside during J's swimming lesson. 'Why do girls' swimming costumes go all the way up here' (jams his hand exaggeratedly underneath his chin)?

Uh oh, here we go. Is it time to launch into a discourse on Shame and the Garden of Eden, compare and contrast gender fashion differences, or try describing the discomfort of non-contained wobbly bits during sporting activity? For that matter, what exactly should I be calling the 'wobbly bits' in dialogue with a three-year-old: breasts or boobs, jugs or bristols … the choice is remarkably wide, but my stance errs on the narrow side when deciding on an acceptable name for public use. Do you think 'mammary glands' is a bit up-tight?

Actually, within our 4 walls they've been known for a long time as elbows after J made an interesting assumption on the mechanics of breastfeeding, obviously without investigating too closely. I think I might be setting the boys up for derision though if we persist with this home-grown terminology. You’d never live down leering 'phwoar, look at the elbows on that!' in the earshot of your teenage mates. Still, you’d only make that kind of boob once I guess.

But, anyway, just what SHOULD I be implanting in their vocabulary banks? (Hmm … 'implants' … now there's a thought.) Sigh … perhaps I should just stop breast-beating about bosom-naming for a bit. Because the truth of the matter is they simply don't care. They’re far too busy gaping in awe at the profusion of boobs popping up left, right and centre all around them. It's a right old breastival out there just now.

Take that larger-than-life page 3 stunna who's currently, well, stunning passing motorists … and small boys … from the side of countless buses. There may be some enormous 10 pence pieces strategically covering up her assets, but there's no mistaking what the real focal point is here.

Or what about when we pop into the newsagents where B's gaze wanders … fascinated … to the top shelves. Perplexed, he once asked me if the ladies were hot. Some might say yes, I thought, but not in the way you're thinking.

And then the boys happened on a discarded copy of the Sun which had been blown (my husband assured) mistakenly into our garden. 'Mummy, why's she showing us her bullets?' asks J with a worldly-wise snigger? 'Why bullets?' I wonder aloud. 'Well, they DO look like bullets,' says my other half. 'But how do they know what bullets look like?' Hmm, clearly there’ve been some enlightening behind-the-bike-shed-discussions on weaponry during school playtime, with particular reference to bazookas it might seem.

Still, I guess I should use this experience as a lesson. All this worrying about what to call 'em, I've realised, is nothing more than a storm in a C cup. I've thus decided not to knock the age-old 'let them work it out themselves' approach when it comes to naming knockers. Why fret a moment longer when I can leave them to figure it out amongst their contemporaries? Sooner or later they'll conform to the best-used breast word and there we'll have my answer.

Whatever word they decide upon, however, I’d be prepared to bet my bottom dollar it isn't elbows though.

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