Some months ago I was looking forwards to my daughter being big enough to help me around the house and stables. Hmmm - not sure now.

At 15 months Bethany has definitely got a much more houseproud streak than I have ever had but I'm not convinced her help is what I need. For instance - I have a very amiable washing machine. To date it has washed three dummies, one silver bracelet (I didn't know I had a silver bracelet) one plastic pretend saucepan lid and a squeeze and squeak book. Being honest the book doesn't squeak any more - it goes "Blaaart" like a flatulent sheep. Dipsy took a ride through the dishwasher last week on the night we had lamb tikka massala for tea and is now more cacky than khaki.

Her dad has been on the receiving end of her help as well. Comet looked at the innards of the video in wonderment, scratching their heads and asking "and this worked until the jammy dodger?", the computer is looking slightly distressed round the edges (and bloody terrified in the middle) and the camera was last seen migrating swiftly towards the top shelf of the wardrobe.

I'm to blame for what happened at the stables though. To be fair to Abis' horse Fliss, no one could blame her for getting rather distressed. There she was peacefully eating her dinner from a bucket on the yard when Beth and I came round the corner ready to muck out. It would startle anyone - a small toddler rustling in a brand new bright red waterproof suit with bright blue wellies heading towards you at eye level would put anyone off their grub.

So Fliss jumped. Unfortunately Fliss landed on Zoes' horse, Gulliver. Gulliver jumped. Gulliver landed on Zoe. Zoe didn't jump. You can't jump with a dirty big horse standing on your foot going boggle eyed at a multicoloured dervish hurtling round his knees. I think I'm going to buy her some steel toecaps for Christmas.

There is a lot to be said though for locking the stable door after the horse has bolted. It keeps the child in for a start!

When Beth was tiny I could pop her in her pram and she would be quite happy to sit and supervise while I did the work. Now she wants to help. In the aforementioned waterproof suit and wellies and gloves I figured not a lot of harm could come to her in there with me. Good as far as it goes.

What the wonderful waterproof gear also does however is stop the shavings and hay getting back out again. What seems to be a good game is, once I've taken out all the dirty shavings and chucked them up against the wall so the floor can air, is for the small one to chug across the floor as fast as she can and flump down against the nice neat banks of shavings.

The shavings are clean. The shavings are soft. The shavings are everywhere. I shake them out of the haynet. I scrape them out of the feed bucket. I sweep the floor. What I don't do is strip the child naked and rub her down with Vim and a Brillo pad.

Having got her home and taken her outer clothes off I found about a cupful in each boot and the same in each trouser leg. I found a generous ladleful in her jumper. I found a nappy full. How did they get round the elastic cuffs of the suit down the jumper, through the vest and in the waist elastic? Is my child is talented in ways yet unknown, or is it come strange form of kleptomania?

So, if you will excuse me now, Beth is making a shavings castle on the living room floor, while I'm off to see if woodchips and curry sauce can cancel each other out. Pass the Vanish someone. Article by Marie Seabrook