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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Or you could possibly nominate me for a MAD Blog Award (nominations close 20th April at 5pm) instead.

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No, instead I’d like to talk about that wonderful subject: weight. Post-baby weight, in fact.

It’s a tricky one. I’m like millions of other women in being unhappy with my size. I don’t know why exactly, I’m not big. In fact, I’m smaller than I was before I got pregnant with Frog. But still, I’m not happy.

It’s all the lumps and bumps, you see. Plus the fact I’m getting married in just over two months and have every intention of upstaging Kate Middleton as being THE bride of 2011.

I tried exercise. It didn’t go well; I wet my pants, farted publically and flashed a bare breast by accident. I tried dieting. That didn’t go well either. I fell face first onto some cake. And then some wine. And then some chocolate.

So now I’m thinking, well, what now?

And here’s the thing. I’ve decided not do anything. Nothing. Not a jot. I’m not going to worry about my body. I’m not going to obsess about the size of my wobbly arse or the less-than-flat shape of my belly.

It’s not because I’ve suddenly realised I look better than J-Lo and Pippa Middleton combined. I don’t. Nor have I suddenly grown to love those wobbly areas I hated before. I still dislike them rather a lot.

It’s because of this article.

I’m loathe to link to it, but I can’t very well write the rest of this post without you at least having a glimpse of what has triggered it in the first place.

Had a look? What do you think?

Personally, I don’t think it does anyone any favours.

First of all, the woman who’s featured (or rather, ridiculed) in this article is clearly in great shape. Especially when you consider she’s had two children, not that long ago. So I disagree with that bit for starters. Secondly, apparently she’s admitted to an eating disorder in the past. Which makes poking fun at her all the more cruel and unnecessary. And thirdly, why does it matter?

And that’s the thing I haven’t been able to get out of my head all day. Why does it matter? Not just that, but why does it matter to me?

Is it because I’ve recently (yes I know she’s nearly one – but it still feels “recent” to me) had a baby myself? Is it because I’ve suddenly taken up my place in the sisterhood now I’m a mother? Is it because having a baby has made me ultra over-sensitive and a little bit moody?

I don’t think so. Or at least, I’m pretty sure the answer’s no to the first two questions.

Actually, I think the reason this article really gets to me is because I had a baby girl. A daughter. A daughter who will grow up to be  a teenager, to be a woman.

I don’t ever want her to hate her body. I don’t ever want her to feel too fat or too thin or too short or too tall. I want her to feel confident and comfortable and happy in who she is and what she looks like.

And articles like this really don’t help.

So that’s why I’ve decided to accept my own body, lumps and bumps and all. I eat healthily and attempt exercise. I’m not fat, but I’m not thin either. And that’s just how it is.

I’m going to quit moaning about not being the size of a supermodel and start leading my daughter by example. I’m going to start liking my body again, for what it is now. Not what it never will be.

And once I’ve completed that mission I’m going to don a very tiny cropped top and march up and down outside the offices of the Daily Mail. I bet they can’t wait.

*This post is for all the ladies in the MUMenTUM group.

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