It is a sad day. Firstborn, who so recently had dreams of being a princess, has announced that she wants to be a pop star when she grows up. You may think this is no big deal but I beg to differ.
Firstborn is five years old and, in my opinion, shouldn't even be aware of what a pop star is let alone aspire to be one. I was hoping she would be in double digits before she started to worry if her booty-shaking is going to make the grade; the sight of my skinny freckle-nosed little daughter trying to dance like the Sugababes while warbling lyrics about love into her pink Hello Kitty hairbrush (with a fake MTV accent) makes me feel quite queasy.
Yesterday Firstborn was watching CBeebies and playing with her Baby Annabel doll, today she's demanding High School Musical DVDs, telling me Beyonce is super-cool and talking about which of her classmates have 'boyfriends'. How did my sweet little baby girl get from being five years old to five going on fifteen... all in the blink of an eye?
The idea of a rustic eco-hut hidden away in a remote corner of Wales (no TV reception, rigorous home-schooling, no playground shananigans) is becoming more and more appealing. Watch this space.