Sometimes it takes a three year old to show you that you’re not as sexually liberated as you’d like to think you are.
Last week, my daughter Violet rushed out of her bedroom and hollered in amazement, ‘Mummy, guess what I just found.’
‘What did you find?’ I asked.
‘This!’ she said dropping her underwear and pointing.
To my surprise, I wasn’t feeling calm and matter-of-fact at all. In that moment, I wasn’t even a mature woman anymore.
I was my 11-year-old self again. The one who was so ignorant of her anatomy that she thought she only had one hole ‘down there’. Having already associated my ‘special lady parts‘ — as some online parenting forums refer to female genitalia — with shame and embarrassment, I was even too afraid to look to confirm this assumption.