WE asked the boys to come up with a New Year's resolution each. But, like the bossy, interfering mother I am, I couldn't resist offering my suggestions. "Don't I know, better than anyone, what's good for you?" I pleaded. Needless to say, none of them took my advice. And, despite my resolution being the same as it is every year (lose weight), they had other ideas...

The three-year-old's resolution

He says: Eat lots of sweets.

I say: Hang onto your curls.

I can't understand why we cut little boys' hair so short and let girls' hair grow long. So many males grow up to lose much of their hair early. Since they won't have it for long, shouldn't we let them keep their luscious locks for as long as possible? Our three-year-old is blessed with gorgeous, blond Shirley Temple-style ringlets. He now looks like a little New Age hippy, but I can't bear to have it cut. Some day soon I know he's going to realise it's a boy thing and demand a short back and sides. Recently, in the bath, where his hair looks very long when straight and wet, he pulled it into a ponytail and said: "Look, I'm a lady". Worse, the TV repair man walked into the house just before Christmas and said: "What a handful, four lads and a little lass."

His resolution for me: Get out of my hair, mum.

The six-year-old's resolution (or as he called it, revolution)

He says: Get mum and dad to go to bed earlier so that we can all stay up late and party.

I say: Act like the six-year-old you are, rather than a teenager-in-waiting.

Number four out of five, he follows his older brothers all over the house, hanging onto their every word and apeing their grungy style and language. As a result, he has been gelling his hair into spikes, singing Eminem songs and chanting inappropriate catchphrases from programmes like Little Britain and The Simpsons while many of his firstborn classmates are still singing nursery rhymes and watching their Thomas the Tank Engine videos.

His resolution for me: Take a chill pill, mum.

The ten-year-old's resolution

He says: Pass my 11-plus this year.

I say: Don't take life too seriously, do take a few risks, don't be afraid of making a mess occasionally.

This is the boy who likes to play by the rules. Always neat and tidy, he looks after his things, files all the guarantees and receipts and keeps his room immaculate. He is the most mature person in our house (and that includes me and his father). He constantly reminds us to keep to the speed limit and admonishes us if we step out of line. Out for a walk by a frozen lake once, while his brothers hurled sticks and stones into the ice, he whispered tentatively in my ear several times: "Mum, are you sure we're allowed to break the ice?" before cautiously joining in. He takes his school work seriously, even refusing to go to the youth club if he has a learn-by-heart or spelling test the next day.

His resolution for me: Stop being so annoying, mum.

The 12-year-old's resolution

He says: Keep up the good work.

I say: Take life more seriously, don't take any risks whatsoever, don't make such a mess.

This is the boy who teachers describe as "lively" and "an interesting character," which usually means a bit of a pain in the neck. Always in trouble over something or other, his exploits make Dennis the Menace look like Walter the Softie. He thinks rules, like most of the toys and games which he never looks after, are made to be broken. Constantly dishevelled and scruffy, he comes home from school looking like a tramp who has slept out all night in a skip with a family of badgers. Some of his clothes could walk all the way to the washing machine themselves. I am sure he is trying to breed things under his bed.

His resolution for me: Lighten up mum, and get off my case.

The 14-year-old's resolution

He grunts: Don't wanna make a stoopid resolution. (Rough translation).

I say: Make an effort to talk in sentences.

Over the past year, the teenager has changed dramatically. He now walks like a Neanderthal man, hunched forward, with arms swinging low by his sides. When you talk to him, he drops his head and looks out at you through a mass of grungy, matted hair, communicating by shaking the hair, or grunting incoherently. It has become almost impossible to have a conversation. Yet friends tell me when he is at their house he is chatty and bright.

His resolution for me: Not bothered.

OUR Christmas morning church service was interrupted by the three-year-old tugging at my eyelids as we recited The Lord's Prayer. "Mum, wake up. Don't go to sleep," he wailed.

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