OUR son has turned two. The "terrible twos". No longer a gurgling bundle of joy but a savvy street kid in a sleepsuit. It is now obvious what he's been doing for the past two years.

While we thought he was lying in his cot watching his mobile twirl round and round, he was secretly plotting our downfall -- hatching plans to make his parents lose their minds completely.

"Ha, I'll show them," he thought, "once I'm a fully paid up toddler I'll have them eating from the palm of my hand." Or the floor, which is where most of his food is flung these days.

And potty training couldn't come soon enough, because changing our son's nappy has now become a two-man operation.

One, usually the stronger of the two, pins him down with brute force while the other member of the hit squad quickly whips the offending nappy from under a squirming bum, a quick wipe with a wet one, then back under with a clean nappy.

I often expect a round of applause on finishing this exercise -- I feel a bit like the sailors who put together those massive gun carriages during the Queen's celebrations -- so quick, so professional.

Discipline is also treated with the contempt my son feels it so richly deserves.

"I'm your mummy," I tell him. "The boss. I tell you what to do." This is met with the frosty stare they perfect at "toddler school", followed by complete disinterest in which ever order you have just delivered.

When I was pregnant I often heard myself telling anyone who would listen that I would always be in control.

I would never lose my temper with my child, never raise my voice and never, ever, smack.

I still vehemently adhere to the non-smacking rule, but sadly have surrendered to the first two.

Usually in public places which is where my son prefers to display his complete control of his mother.

Ah yes, my two-year-old has got "toddler-dom" down to a fine art.

Those marbles I'm losing? Guess who's found them and using them to his own advantage?