With 3 boys under 6, Buggy Blogger mum to J (5), B (4) and S (2) certainly has her hands full. This week our Buggy Blogger exposes a naked truth.

Look for the bare necessities, the simple bare necessities ... like washing, dressing and feeding five under-sixes without losing the plot.

That's right, no typo, this weekend we’ve had no less than five small people to take care of. Much to everyone's excitement … well everyone under the age of six … SB and L were camping out with us for a two-night sleepover. There was excitable shrieking in spades, an elaborate get 'em all off to bed endurance test, and a Saturday-morning dawn chorus made up entirely of loud giggles at 5.15am. Not mine I hasten to add.

And then there was the nude awakening of bath-time when the shrieking rose to a whole new level. I'm pretty sure our childless neighbours would've been ready to slap an ASBO on us, but had they've knocked on the door in complaint I wouldn't have heard them anyway. In any case, I was far too wrapped up in my own shameful pursuit which I'm unsure whether or not to share.

The fact is ... throws caution to the wind ... I couldn't fight off the overwhelming urge to pull out my camera. Now please don't report me, I'm really not weird or a peeping Thomasina, and I promise I studiously avoided any naughty bits. Somehow or other though, I just can't get enough of group pictures in the buff.

Now I can't claim to be a nudist myself and there's no way you'd get me anywhere near that Gok fella, but somehow – the barefaced cheek of it – I can't resist seeing all the little cherubs lined up as Nature intended (assuming Nature intended them to be surrounded by Matey Bubbles and couple of rubber ducks). You may think I'm starkers-raving mad but I reckon it must be genetic as there's a similar treasured snap of me as a pre-schooler squashed into a bath with my elder brother and two … or was it all three … of my parents' friends' little boys. (Does that sound like bragging or was I just a two-year-old trollop?).

Perhaps it's the hilarity of seeing five vulnerable little bods squeezed together in a situation they’re bound not to tolerate for much longer and which … she notes gleefully … will make for great wedding-speech material. Or perhaps it's just the likeliest time you're ever going to get them all smiling for the camera at any one time? Because with the splashes and high jinks going on in our tub that night, these lot – though wearing nothing but a smile – were Cheshire catting for Britain.

There was the hilarity of SB stepping on B's willy, someone mistaking the small and forebodingly-dark toy submarine for an S-related accident, and the mirth of discovering that everyone's bottoms were imprinted with the nobbles of the bath mat. This was slapstick at its best – or more accurately, slap-thigh at its slap-happiest (well the bath's roomy but not that roomy).

And on the subject of imprinted skin, poor little S treated everyone to an up-close and personal viewing of his Chicken Pox scabs. Poor little fella. Next to the unblemished skin of his bath-mates, his was as pure as the driven-upon snow. Somehow the purple-scabbed, post contagion stage actually looks the worst, especially when streaking around the bathroom without a stitch on. There were spots on his face, spots on his back and spots in places that you’d rather not know. I'm not sure who was itching the most; the little guy with the pox, or yours truly who was dying to start picking the flaky spent scabs out of his hair.

Because, I don't know about you, but I love all that elemental maintenance of the young kind of stuff. Whether it's removing ear-wax, trimming nails or attempting to cut their hair, I secretly adore doing all that very basic, grassroots mothering. This, I maintain, is a way of expressing affection and keeping the peace just like our Jungle Book monkey friends. Not sure if I'm achieving the desired effect, however. Whenever I take a deep breath and try approaching B with a cotton bud in hand, I'm greeted with violent eyes and a right bloomin' earful, and not the kind I was hoping for.

I fare slightly better, though not much on the hair-cutting exploits. These began when J was so hideous in the hair-dressers I was forced into an apologetic retreat and a DIY short, back and sides at base. Before long, a home job became the norm for all three. There were hits, and rather more misses as I got to grips with my other half's electric razor and experimentally sheared off large clumps of hair. On the whole, I think I managed OK, but I accepted the heavy “hands-off!” hint when my husband gave me a proper set of clippers for Christmas.

And so, a few months later and I've just tried my second attempt with my new flashy tool and a set of 3 rather reluctant guinea pigs. Don't think I'll be signed up to a Vidal Sassoon apprenticeship as a result. They were extremely short at the back, a tad lopsided over the ears and very nearly bald in patches – a trio of junior squaddies with the mange. My husband's suggested I can use his razor again next time if I so wish. 'nuff said.

So while I go off somewhere quiet and lick my clipper-inflicted wounds, I'll leave you with the happier image of a row of chubby-cheeked bathing beauties instead. If you need a lift, for me there's no doubt about it … and I know I'm on slippery ground here … but the truth is there's something undeniably cute about a huddle of kids squeezed naked into the tub together like rosy sardines.

Perhaps for you it just doesn't wash, but I for one am happy to come clean and lay bare the truth. I'm a self-confessed naked(-loving, scab-picking) ape.

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