My Son Joe, he's brill. They never stop, do they? Changing, that is, growing and learning.

He is six now and over the past few months he has become Mr Independent.

He's no longer holding my hand every step or asking me to get him things in a shop. Now it's "Can I have a pound please?"

"What for?"

"Oh, just a few things," and he shrugs his shoulders.

"That's too much," I say. "Where's your own money?"

"I'm saving mine for a train."

It sure didn't take him long to cop on to the fact that paper money is more valuable than "the nice shiny coins".

Did you every wonder where they get the funny names they call us? Mom, mam, mummy, mammy, bom. Yes, "Bom" - that's what my son calls me.

I'm not sure what its origins are. I think it's a cross between "a mhamai" and "mom", as his friends call their mothers.

I've tried to get him to change to something more user-friendly, but he keeps reverting to "Bom". Not that I mind myself. I quite like its originality.

However, when you're walking along the aisle of the supermarket and you hear "Bom, Bom, Bom!" - people begin to stare and wonder.

I've had to speak to him about other words he's been using lately, namely "my mickey".

"That's not a very nice name for it," I said. "That's what my friends call it," he told me without hesitating. "And they call that my arse,' he said, pointing appropriately.

"I don't want to hear that dirty language in this house," I said, sounding just like my own mother. "Well I suppose you don't want to know that Liam called me a dickhead so," he laughed.

I was getting quite mad with him. I told him I wouldn't give him the glue and markers I'd bought him for school.

"Oh," he said. "Did you get them? Oh, Bom, you're brill, you're the best Bom."

How can you win?