The Dominant Girly Gene

When Phoebalina Ballerina was born nearly four years ago, I was a tiny weeny bit stunned. Quite apart from the gob-smacking adoration I felt for my new little daughter, I was amazed at the complex genetics that had clearly been involved. You see, Christian and I are both fair-skinned (to the point of getting sunburnt simply by reading the word 'sun'), with light-coloured (read 'mouse' for me, and mouse with increasingly amounts of silver for him) hair, and blue/green eyes.

Our scrinched-up bundle of screaming joy had jet-black hair, dark eyes and olive skin. I remember gazing at her in the little fishbowl bassinet, wondering if there had somehow been a mix-up in the microsecond between my baby being lifted out of my belly, and being held up for me to see. The thing is, Jack was whisked away from me after his birth for a few hours, because I was quite a while in recovery. Maisie was taken immediately to the special care nursery for oxygen therapy, and wasn't given to me until the next day. But both of them were blonde and blue-eyed from their first gasp, and there was absolutely no mistaking whose babies they were.

Phoebalina was the only one of my babes to have the umbilical cord clamped and cut, and to be placed directly in Christian's arms, before finding her sleeping spot on my chest. She was the only one to never leave our sight from the moment of her birth. And she was the only one that looked like another woman's baby, to the point where I grew a bit tired of being asked what the postman's name was.

Being a science nerd teacher, I have always loved genetics. It was always my favourite component of the curriculum, and I relished every minute of teaching it. Although Phoebe quickly became a blonde, blue-eyed chubster just like her brother, it always fascinated me that she had been born looking so different. To add to this, people would comment on a daily basis that Phoebe did not really resemble anybody in the family. "Who does Phoebe look like?", they would inquire, peering at our beautiful girl. "She looks like Phoebe", Christian would reply, deadpan.

Now that she is almost four years old, Phoebs is very clearly an O'Toole. She has the same colouring as her baby sister; the same eyes as her Daddy; the same grin as her brother; and the same sweet, stubborn-as-a-mule nature as her Aunty Miffy. But the thing that proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that she is my daughter (apart from the stretchmarks and caesar scar that she caused) is the girly gene that becomes more evident in her phenotype every day.

My mum will attest that I was the girliest girl in the world. When I was little, it was all about pink, frills, ballet, pink, flounces, lace, pink, prettiness and pink. (And if you know me IRL, you're probably thinking that not much has changed. And you'd be right.) I even made up a new name for myself, which included most of the names of the Von Trapp sisters and a few flowers thrown in. I am still a girly girl, just not in a scary Brynne Edelsten way. I love anything pink and pretty. I unashamedly dress my baby daughters in pink (simply because the goth phase will come eventually and I need to have enough cute photos to sustain me through that difficult time). But that's ok. I draw the line at dressing Jack in pink - he doesn't need more therapy.

The older Phoebe becomes, the girlier she is. Can you tell how delighted I am?? The girly gene is so strong in my biggest girl that she literally skips for joy when I lay out a skirt for her to wear as opposed to pants. As the weather has been so warm these last few days, Phoebs has been in skirt-wearing heaven. This morning, she tripped into the bathroom wearing her denim skirt and leggings, and chirped, "Mummy, thank you for my skirt! Girls wear skirts because they are girls, right? We don't want to wear those long leg fings. Just skirts and dresses, because we are girls, not boys. Not boys." And she twirled around and skipped away, happy as a lark.

Before you set Germaine Greer on me, remember this - my daughter wears pants (or long leg fings) and shorts most of the time, simply because it is more practical for playing. And she tolerates this with a sigh, most of the time. But when I allow my girl to wear a pretty dress or a skirt, she is so, so happy. Who am I to tell her that wearing dresses is wrong? Dresses feel swishy and floaty and nice. There is nothing nicer on a warm day than feeling the breeze on your bare legs, under a skirt that makes you feel good. Rather than worrying about creating an anti-feminist, I'm glad my girl knows what she likes.

At nearly four years old, my daughter is the queen of all things pretty and sparkly. She adores flowers and fairies, princesses and tiaras. Any colour is fine, as long as it is pink. (She will also tolerate purple and white, as long as they are teamed with the ubiquitous pink). She is happiest when her hair is tied up (just like Mum's), there are necklaces and bracelets around her neck and wrists, fairy wings are attached to her back, and there is a tiara (or "bitara") atop her blonde fluff. On our walk with the dogs today, she pranced along behind the pram in her silver party shoes, doing "fairy skips". Anything to get her to move more quickly.

After a week of baby beauty pageant madness in the media, I can state categorically that I do not, and never will, agree that dressing little girls up as Vegas showgirls is a good idea. Prancing a spray-tanned, made-up, Botoxed child across a stage is one thing; allowing your inner girly girl to shine is another. I am proud to say that my baby girl possesses a dominant girly gene. But no makeup in the world could make her more beautiful than she already is; no flouncy dresses could enhance her natural charm; no silly song and dance routines could render her more delightful. In her natural, bare-faced, wispy-haired, dress-ups-from-the-actual-dress-up-box costumes, my Phoebalina is the most beautiful girly girl all without trying. I loves every bit of her. And I am so, so glad that it's my girly DNA that runs through her veins. Because when she hits the everything-is-black goth phase, I will remind myself that, like her mother, she will grow out of it, and return to all things pink. Eventually.