Having been met with squeals of delight when he discovered his first wobbly tooth recently, I honestly thought there could be no more excitement left until at least his sixth birthday. But then, bored of wondering whether I should tackle the ironing and looking frantically around for another distraction from that most tedious of chores, I suggested we move his bed to the other side of his room. He looked at me a little suspiciously. "Erm, no thanks mum. I like my bedroom like this."
Undeterred, I convinced him that it would be great and while he had a bath I dragged and lifted and heaved and shoved and hoovered (couldn't help it - there was a shocking amount of dust behind the bed) and reorganised books and teddies and stood back to survey my work. It was good. Very good. It looked like a totally different room, but even I couldn't have predicted just how good this would be to his young eyes.
His newly arranged bedroom was greeted with what can only be described as absolute and utter, unadulterated, childish excitement. Whoops of joy, spinning around on the floor, screams of excitement for his little brother to come and look, jumping on the bed, turning lamps on and off - nothing at all was new, but to him it couldn't have been any better.
"Mummy," he beamed at me, arms uplifted in amazement, "This is a whole new day for me. A whole new day! This is the best day ever of my life. This is even better than having a wobbly tooth. It is just soooooooooooo cool. I can't believe it. I just can't believe it!"
Proof, if proof were ever needed that you literally do not have to spend one cent to bring your children untold pleasures and, what is more, concrete evidence that you should never, ever underestimate the power of a serious resistance to a pile of ironing.