Six years ago last night at 3.36am in the morning I finally gave birth to the kicky, hiccuppy baby who was in my tummy, and now he is six.

And hurrah for being six.

Hurrah for being six and actually truly believing that when you get up on the morning of your birthday you need to get your Mum to measure you to see how much bigger you are. And hurrah for the glee you feel when you're given an 'I am six' badge, just because you'll get to wear it all day in pride of place on your school jumper.

Hurrah for actually looking forward to the fact that everyone will sing Happy Birthday to you in assembly, and hurrah for being overjoyed with presents like Hot Wheels cars with glittery paint jobs and polyester Power Rangers outfits and Roald Dahl's book of Revolting Rhymes and pens that change colour when you go over what you've drawn with the special magic one, and strangely fascinating Bionicles monsters and flimsy plastic swords.

Hurrah for the look of expectancy you get on your face when you see the lady at the garage because you think she's going to wish you happy birthday even though of course she has no idea it's your birthday, and hurrah for shrieking with delight simply because Grandma has sent you a skateboarding Tweetie Pie card "so that's two things in one because I like Tweetie Pie and I like skateboarding, don't I Mummy!"

Oh, I wish I was six.

And hurrah for having the total infallible belief, the certain knowledge that when you come home there will be cake and candles and balloons and more presents and a birthday tea and more cards and kisses and cuddles, because that's what Mum's do, don't they. They make things nice.