Molly, flower, Jane, down there ...

When I was a child my mother had all sorts of euphemisms for your private parts. Yes, I’m sticking with private parts here.

When I had my own daughter, I wanted to be more open and modern.

I wanted to use the V word without flinching.

The first time I said it conversation with her she didn’t hear me, so I had to kind of shout: “Have you washed your ...”

She wrinkled her brow and asked: “My what?”

I pointed. “Oh, you mean down there ...”

The other day she asked me about the sanitary napkins in our bathroom. I wanted to be open and honest, I really did.

“Mummy,” she said incredulously, “do you still wear diapers?”

“No,” I said, “that’s for when mummy bleeds.”

“You bleed?” she stuttered.

“Yes, some day so will you.” I said it matter of factly, not with the voice of doom. She started to sob. Instantly. “I don’t want that to ever happen to me! I don’t want to bleed.”

Panicked, I held her and said: “Don’t cry. No, it’s all right. It won’t happen if you don’t want it to.”

It was a stupid thing for me to say, but she clearly wasn’t ready for that much honesty — and neither was I. I suddenly saw all those other difficult questions looming on the horizon.

But the real question I couldn’t handle was: “Will it hurt?”

I suffered from agonising monthly menstrual cramps and nausea up until the day I gave birth. I spent hours in a dark room, with a heating pad and a cup of tea.

Since I had my daughter, I haven’t had a single cramp; for me, having a child was very worth it for more than one reason.

In the end, I told my daughter we would talk about it tomorrow (a lie).

Hopefully, I still have a few more years to figure this one out.