Ten years ago, I plunged into parenthood in a state of pie-eyed optimism. Thinking that my newborn son was a blank slate, I foolishly thought that I would be able to influence his personality and determine his character. I now realise that I was completely delusional. That little pink baby, deceptively docile and charming with his masses of dark brown hair and sapphire blue eyes, came into this world with his own agenda.

I thought that by restricting the types of programmes he watched on television, offering him mostly gender-neutral toys that had been designed to be educational and not allowing him to play with toy weapons of any sort, I would be able to instil in him my values of pacifism and gender equality.

I didn't give family and friends any guidelines about what types of toys I wanted him to have. It seemed too much like a declaration that gifts were expected. So I decided that any gifts would be gratefully acknowledged and toys that I deemed inappropriate or too overtly boy-oriented would be quietly donated to my favourite charity shop, unless there was a risk that the giver would find out.

Soon, the toy box held as many trucks, trains and tools as it did blocks and educational toys. What was dismaying to me was that he strongly preferred the "boy" toys over the gender-neutral and educational ones from the word go. Offer him his Baby Whoozit or his green plastic race car and he would go for the race car every single time.

By the time he started attending day care at 14 months, I'd given up on gender neutrality in his toys, but I still clung to the belief that I would be able to raise a nonviolent child by banning toy weapons and even cartoon violence in videos. Picking him up one afternoon, about a month after he started at day care, I was informed that he and his buddy, Zach, had been in trouble that day for inappropriate play. It seems they'd been using their thumbs and forefingers as pretend guns, pointing at the girls and yelling, "Bang! Bang!" I was gobsmacked.

He'd never watched anything more violent than Teletubbies. How on earth did he have any concept of what a gun was or how to emulate one? It couldn't have been Zach's influence – Zach's parents were even more right-on lefty than me.

As he got older, even the most innocuous toys were used as mock weapons. My protestations about not liking violence were met with exasperated cries of "it's just pretend, Mum". Eventually, I caved on the weapons ban and lightsabres and foam dart guns made their way into the toy box.

Over the past 10 years, I have come to the conclusion that my influence over my son is much more limited than I ever imagined it would be. I cannot mould my son into the type of person I want him to be, I can only guide and advise and hope that the decisions he makes will be good ones. He is a wonderful person – curious about the world around him, kind, generous, loving. He is exactly the sort of child I had hoped for 10 years ago, when I first held him in my arms. I just wish that I could take more credit for that.