Inspired once again by Brit in Bosnia’s and 3 Bedroom Bungalow’s regular Dear So and So strand, here’s a second version (here’s the first) dedicated to some very little So-and-Sos; my three sons.

Dear Biggest So-and-So,

Ok, so you’re hating learning your ‘d’s and ‘b’s, seem overly fond of wrestling your friends to the floor during playtime, and refuse pointblank to eat anything yellow. (And yes, I am remembering that ‘lollipops don’t count’.) But you shared a party bag with medium so-and-so this week, without even being asked. You brought a very pongy nappy, created by tiny so-and-so, downstairs because mummy’s hands were full. And you managed to get changed by yourself every morning. My kind and generous boy, perhaps all the wrestling is just a way of showing you care after all?

Yours in hope,

Mummy

Dear Medium So-and-So,

Some of your habits aren’t particularly endearing, and there’s a limit to the amount of snot any mother will willingly allow to have wiped on to her sleeve. This week, though, you’ve managed to appear on my lap from nowhere and plant a kiss somewhere on my face every single day. I feel like the mother station with the small spaceship coming in to dock. Come by for a pitstop anytime you like, my darling.

Love mummy.

Dear Tiny So-and-So,

It’s not possible to put ten pieces of carrot in your mouth without choking, vomiting, or both. Yet you still persist. I’ve decided to admire your fortitude, because this determined streak often manifests in more positive ways. You’re only one-and-a-half years old, but yesterday you managed to take off all your clothes (albeit with a bit of help with poppers and buttons) before bathtime. You never need any help eating at mealtimes. And few things are so high they put you off trying to climb them. Which, admittedly, is worrying, but I do admire your desire to get to the top. Clever you, my tiny maelstrom.

 Love mummy

So, Tana Ramsay is Tesco Celebrity Mum of the Year. With this  kind of award, I’m always a bit, “so what?”. The mother of four beat off a host of other yummies, including Patsy Palmer, Natasha Kamplinsky and Linda Lusardi. Tana talked about a good parent needing the “patience of a saint”, something that it’s hard to imagine she doesn’t also need as a wife; although she was keen to say that her husband’s onscreen f***- it persona wasn’t the one he brought to a home that “wasn’t a stressful environment”.

But what does a “celebrity mum” award mean? Surely you’re a mum first and foremost, so why get an award just because you also happen to be in the public eye? Especially in the case of someone who only became a celebrity because she is married to one, the globetrotting and marathon-running chef Gordon. Yes, she’s forging her own career: she’s dancing on ice, and has written three bestselling family cookbooks. She’s bringing up four children, and managed to keep the family together when faced with tabloid rumours of her husband’s infidelity. Well, yes, good on her, but does all that deserve an award? Previous winners include Katie Price and Kerry Katona, two mothers I’d personally put on the bottom of the list for any kind of maternal awards.  However, reading on I stopped feeling it was quite so pointless when I learned that Tana supports numerous charities, and has raised hundreds of thousands of pounds to support them. So more than just a pretty face, then.

The overall Tesco Mum of the Year award went to Jane Gates, whose son Sebastian died of a rare form of kidney cancer. Her son’s dying wish was to build a holiday home for sick children and their families. Mrs Gates has raised over £1.2million for Sebastian’s Action Trust, and hopes to accommodate over 100 families a year when the home opens in Hampshire.

So while the jury in my head is still out on the subject of awards for celebrity mums, I can’t help but admire Tana for raising all that money. And I am naturally full of admiration for Jane Gates making such a positive contribution out of such a tragic event. But the mothering skills of Katie Price and Kerry Katona? It might be interesting to ask their children what they think in a few years time.

Inspired by Brit in Bosnia’s and 3 Bedroom Bungalow’s regular Dear So and So strand, here’s a version dedicated to some very little So and Sos; my sons. Of course I love them. Of course they make me laugh. And, of course, they drive me completely mad. One for them to look back on when they have children of their own, while I sit cackling in the corner nursing a granny-sized g&t.

Dear little 18-month-old
You sometimes come into the bathroom with me while I’m having a shower. I try to be quick, but it’s amazing how much havoc you can wreak when I’m in there. Don’t eat the loo brush, drink bubble bath or clean the floor with my toothbrush. Desist and play with the assortment of toys I have carefully chosen for your stimulation and development, or I will have to put you in the laundry basket.

Yours, health & safetily..

Dear little three-year-old,
You probably didn’t realise that when I was getting changed yesterday morning, the neighbours were getting a lovely framed view of my rear end. I open the curtains in this house, buddy, and the neighbours thank me for that.

Yours, nakedly…

Dear little four-year-old,
You’re getting quite strong. Which I’m obviously thrilled about, because it shows all that fish pie and spaghetti bolognaise must be working. However, when I’m kneeling on the floor and you jump on my calf, it really hurts. Ditto pulling my arm behind me when I’m not expecting it. Ditto running up behind me and pushing me when I’m standing at the top of the stairs. You’re not going to get any smaller. I am.

Yours ouchily…

 Dear little 18-month-old,
My breakfast is no nicer than yours. We both had toast and raspberry jam this morning, and pointing at my plate and repeating, ‘blah, blah, blah, BLAAAAH’ 200 times, while pointing at my plate, doesn’t make for a relaxing start to the day. And won’t make my toast appear in your mouth.

Yours hungrily…

Dear little three-year-old,
I am thrilled that you are displaying such a keen interest in wildlife. We are lucky to have squirrels running around our garden for you to chase, and worms for you to dig up. But there’s a time and a place. Being woken this morning by a squashed, dead ladybird dropped in my eye is probably neither the time, nor the place.

Yours, with a crunchy eye…

Does this picture make you go "aaah" or "AARGH!"?

I’m still incensed by the Eight Boys and Wanting a Girl Cutting Edge TV documentary. And I still don’t get it. Mothers with a parade of gorgeous, healthy boys drinking cranberry juice, douching with diluted vinegar, and avidly reading online conception websites to see how many women managed to conceive a girl following such methods as using lime-soaked tampons, or having sex two days before ovulation. Others went still further, flying to America to try their luck with pre-implantation genetic diagnosis (PGD), something that’s illegal in the UK, unless trying to prevent inheritable diseases. Some of these mothers seemed fraught to the point of derangement, sobbing at baby scans that revealed ‘another boy’ and regretting a life without shopping trips and helping choose a wedding dress. At the extreme end of the scale were tales of abortions, adoptions and post-birth Prozac.

Are boys really so bad?

Having a family, and deciding on the number of children you have, is clearly a lifestyle choice. Likewise, how you bring up your children is also up to you. But having a child so you can go shopping with her seems a strange priority. For every father who is overjoyed to have a little footballer in the family, there’s probably another sitting glumly on the terraces, while Tom, Dick or Harry takes himself off to learn modern dance. Who says a daughter is going to want to spend her days having facials? She might actively take against pink – especially if her mother is so keen to be girly. While most parents love their children unconditionally, that’s not to say they’re going to share the same interests.

Of course, I might just be taking the documentary far too personally. I have three boys, and the morning after watching Eight Girls and Wanting a Boy I was booked in for a 12-week scan for baby four. During my last pregnancy, I lost count of the number of people who asked me if “I was prepared for another boy”, and “Will you keep on going till you get a girl?” I’m now dreading telling anyone I’m pregnant, because the remarks are likely to be worse fourth time around. I discovered that laughing it off with a, “Pretty pleased with the boys I’ve got, thanks” made me sound defensive. Other times, after another night of pregnancy nausea and barely sleeping with the two existing children, I was less composed. Once I even said to a particularly annoying mother of three girls, “The scan couldn’t pick up on the gender – it might be a hermaphrodite”.

This desire for girls can’t just be about creating shopping companions. There seems to be a widespread malaise about boys. Research commissioned last year for Women in Journalism revealed very few positive news stories about teenage boys, while male pupils are lagging further and further behind their female classmates at school. Books such as Raising Cain and Real Boys reveal problems with young male psyches caused by narrow definitions of the ‘right’ way to behave. In a classroom, this translates as boys as young as four and five being labelled as problematic, when all they’re doing is finding it hard to sit  down because their bodies are telling them to run around.

 So, for the record, I genuinely don’t care if my fourth baby is male or female. I’m told the odds of having a girl after four boys are very low. Well, fine by me. My house is regularly turned upside down by jumping, running and kicking boys. They scrap, are obsessed with pirates and Lego, and don’t shirk away from mud. But they also help me bake cakes, paint endless pictures, and love being read to. Admittedly, they don’t like shopping, but the plus side is that getting them dressed takes about two seconds because none of them care about what they wear. Are girls the same? I’m unlikely to find out, but do know that healthy children are a blessing, and to be blessed four times over is nothing short of a miracle. Which is why I’ll be happy, whether I get to think pink or not.