The diary

This is a transcribed entry from my actual diary, started in 1994. I was 11. In my infinite wisdom I decided to write up this diary and then put it on the radio. You can listen to some of the past entries either here or here.

It’s all rather embarrassing, but going through it has brought back some funny memories. So read on and then tell me, what were you doing on 21st October 1994?

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Dear Diary,

It’s been a VERY busy day today. At lunch, Helena kicked Amy’s ball onto the roof and we weren’t allowed to go and get it. Then the boys came and – even though it was girls day in the football area – they TOTALLY took over!!!

Miss said they had to let us play because it was girls day so then we had a big game of girls v boys. The boys had more in their team so about two of them came on our team, but the STUPID boys still won… It’s only because they were FOULING all over the place!!!

One of them kicked the ball at me really hard and it hurt. So I pinched Neil because he was cheating but then he pinched me back and kicked the ball at me again. I cried and walked off. Well wouldn’t you?!!!!

But then I was worried I would be missing too much so I decided to come back again.

I hope they don’t let the stupid BOYS play next time.

Love,

Molly

X-O-X-O

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Right, now that I’ve got your attention, let me explain.

Frog doesn’t have a vagina. Well, I suppose she does, but we don’t call it that. She’s a girl and everything, without a willy (as her friend, Arthur, likes to point out over and over again) but, until recently her “girl’s parts” didn’t have a name.

We dabbled with “flower” but it didn’t fit. “Mini” enjoyed a short stay in our house too, but was eventually sent packing. For a while it was just, “that bit” or “you know…” until a better way of referring to it came along.

It didn’t really matter before. Not when Frog wasn’t speaking or busy taking off her nappy and examining her entire body in meticulous fashion, often in search of a good new colouring canvas for her crayons.

But, the other day, the childminder asked – in passing – what we call her “bits”. Frog had been desperately pointing to herself “down there” apparently trying to articulate what lurked inside her nappy.

It’s the word she has learned from me. The word I finally found myself using. The word I learned from my mother, which she learned from her mother, ad infinitim etc etc.

The word?

Tuppence. Or “tuppy” for short.

This is what my sister and I had, when we were little girls. So it seems only fitting for my own daughter to have one too.

To my ears, it sounds dainty, cute and a little bit funny. Exactly fitting for a toddler.

So, if my daughter happens to tug at your sleeve, pointing at her trousers while shouting “tuppy”, don’t be alarmed. She just wants to tell you of her new discovery.

Now, own up, what’s a tuppy called in your house?

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It hasn’t been an instant discovery.

There was the fascination with her hands when she was around six months old, with the constant inspection of her fingers. And then came the perusal of her feet and examination of each toe. Each day brings a new discovery of body part, which occupies my 15 month old daughter for a good few hours.

And now we appear to have moved on to a new area.

It started a month or so ago. In the bath Frog looked down and – bam! There it was. Sitting right between her legs. Almost as if it had been there all the time and she’d only just noticed it. She prodded it for a while before moving on to another task. And it looked like she’d forgotten about her new discovery.

But then yesterday the three year old boy from next door came round to play. After around an hour he whipped off his trousers and pants before jumping up and shouting, “Ta daaaa!”

And Frog was fascinated, not to mention a little bit peeved. She couldn’t take her eyes off the new display in front of her. It’s fair to say she was green with envy.

Later that night, Frog spent a good twenty minutes examining her own in-between-the-legs area (I’m aware that is a rubbish way to refer to it – we still haven’t decided on a “name”). And then she cried. And cried and cried and cried.

If she could talk I know she’d be wailing, “But I don’t want to be a girl!”

And so, at 15 months old, my child has already learned one of life’s cruel lessons. I now have to try to persuade her why being a girl really isn’t so bad afterall.

This could be tricky.

A rather peeved Frog

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