There have been many occasions over the past 10 years – mostly in the middle of a WWE wrestling reenactment before school – that I have looked on at my family of three boys and wondered how different life would have been had the gender mix been different.

I’m not naive enough to think that three girls would have been a breeze. I’m from a family of four girls and a boy and the memories of the fights over hairbrushes and the arguing over boys are still strong.

Even with the wonderful parents I grew up with, I still remember the day the dinner plate slid slowly down the wall after it was thrown across the kitchen during an argument, mashed potato slowing its slippery descent before it smashed onto the floor; five little faces aghast before descending into rapturous laughter.

And the incident of the exploding felt tip pens that were thrown onto the fire after yet another bickering match over pen lids. The ensuing indoor firework display better than many I’ve seen since.

The moments that finally push parents over the edge and make them explode are rarely forgotten, where would we be without these treasured family anecdotes that are so often remembered differently depending on the part you played in it.

When I look back at my childhood years, things seem to have changed so much.

For a start, when I was told to do something; I’m pretty sure I did it. There was no procrastinating or delay tactics (that I remember). I’m told this is not just a boy trait so maybe would have been just the same with three girls.

Why is it that despite the fact that the boys know that every Monday to Friday it’s the same – get up, get dressed, have breakfast and brush teeth – we seem to have a daily slanging match that can doubtless be heard in the next road.

Sometimes the feeling of utter relief when I drop all three of them at the bus stop and begin the drive to work is overwhelming.

There is usually a nagging feeling of guilt at having started the day with shouting and conflict... but this only usually lasts about 30 seconds. I doubt I’m all that different from the rest of the working parents in the country.

There’s a common bond that unites us all, often a shared glance or raised eyebrow when collegues without children bemoan the length of time it takes to blow-dry their hair in the morning or that they didn’t get their usual nine hours’ sleep and feel dreadful.

I remember being part of this world and looking on pitifully at an older collegue who always raced into the carpark looking vaguely dishevelled, and with the occasional smear of dried Weetabix, with only seconds to spare before the start of the working day.

I remember moaning that there was too much to fit into the working day with a visit to the gym and a weekly load of washing to do. I vowed I would never be driving a seven-seater people carrier and somehow thought I’d never be reduced to having to take holidays in the school holiday period.

My weekends were spent sleeping, partying and shopping.

Now that I’ve aged and slipped over to the dark side, my weekends still bear some resemblance only now the partying is more likely to be with 30 school kids and a children’s entertainer and the shopping is mostly in the aisles of my local supermarket.

I do at least two loads of washing a day and I’m not sure I’d even consider a car without seven wipe-clean seats.

Being a working parent gives life some perspective though. I no longer spend evenings fretting over what dental procedure I have booked in the next day and I realise that my children are not what defines me.

I don't know what they will chose to do when they get older. They may decide to go to university; they may want to start working at 16 and either of those options is fine with me.

In the mean time, I’m working on building a big old bank of family anecdotes that don’t all involve me screaming at them to hurry up and get ready.

Until then, I’ll still have the idyllic image of three perfectly behaved little girls who do exactly what they’re asked to... just like I did when I was little.