I swore I didn’t care, wouldn’t flinch, would be cool if people thought my daughter was a boy. I believed that I could stand outside the ridiculous system that genders babies without temptation to join in.

In this spirit, I welcomed a load of blues and pretty boyish clothes from my cousin-in-law who had a son last year. And I dress Talitha in them. I love how she looks in blue. I wash and hang her little blue baby gros with affection and admire the way the shades fall on her skin.

Then it started. The compliments about my son. Possessed by something more girly than I, I got me to the next NCT nearly new sale and bought all things pink and floral. It was a strange moment.

And of course, people still assume she’s a boy. Even in a dress.

But babies don’t really have gender do they? I mean, they have sexes but you’d only know that in a nappy change. When I think of Talitha, I think of my baby, not my little girl, particularly.

It reminds me a bit of a book we borrowed from the library when I was little, about how you could tell if someone was male or female and the conclusion was that you couldn’t.

So, my own must-get-pink-now has surprised me. It feels overpowering. Like I’m desperately shouting a gender statement over her life. There must be another way.

When Natureshop sent me this kimono bodysuit, I was struck by how effortlessly feminine it was yet how easily unisex. It’s an article of clothing that isn’t just cute. Those squiggles are genuinely pretty, carrying all the attraction of a story. I feel like I’m inside someone’s fictive imagination, seeing Talitha in this. They also sent this sleeping bag which could definitely go boy or girl.

This is how she feels:

“All the poppers and wraparound stuff mean you don’t have to fit my head through that silly neck hole thing and make me feel temporarily blind. The world WILL end if I miss anything. But they’re a few more bits to do up and it’s taking longer than I’d like.”
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