Okay, so she’s not really.
Fatter than her brother that is.
But for a premature baby girl, she’s sure giving him a run for his money.
“She’s got bread legs,” Master Nine proudly told his grandparents last week.
What I’d actually said was she had ‘more rolls than a bakery’.
Fairy Floss is my final baby.
‘Fairy Floss’ because she’s soft, sweet and mostly comes in pink.
The pink is a must.
Having had only boys before, I didn’t realise how hard it is for people to pick a girl.
“Oh he’s so cute, I love his little white pants,” a shop assistant gushed recently.
‘Really?’ I thought. ‘You’re seeing the pants but not the floral smock?’
I smiled widely, glanced about casually and wandered out.
Without buying anything.
I never thought I’d be a girly mum.
I didn’t expect to have a girl and I didn’t expect to enjoy one so much.
I prefer footy to fairies, playgrounds to princesses.
But now my life is pink.
The clothes line is littered in all shades of it, as is one entire room in our house.
Pink clothes, pink blankets, pink teddy bears, pink lotions, even pink nappies.
Yes, she even craps in pink (although, according to Learner Dad, the princess doth only ‘poo’).
After nine years of polo shirts and overalls, I believe it was time for a change.
I folded them up and gave them away faster than I could say ‘the top drawer is for tiaras, the bottom for tutus’.
Fairy Floss arrived after a troubling yet ultimately trouble-free pregnancy (more on that later).
We actually thought we were having a Dagwood Dog.
That’s because our obstetrician had referred to a ‘he’ twice during ultrasounds.
Learner Dad called him on it at our last appointment.
“My wife says you keep saying ‘he’,” he challenged him. “Have you given it away?”
I felt my face redden.
This was awkward.
The poor doctor had probably hoped we hadn’t noticed.
“To be honest,” he replied. “I don’t remember what you’re having. I just call them all ‘he’.”
‘Yeah good one,’ I thought.
We already had two boys. He’d surely sought out a vagina on our behalf.
Turns out he hadn’t.
And when he came to visit me the day after Fairy Floss was born, he still referred to her as a ‘he’.
Learner Dad thinks I’m a bit of a know-it-all when it comes to pregnancy and he loves the fact I got it so wrong.
But he’s wasting his time teasing me because, the thing is, I love it too.
I was wrong.
Horribly, beautifully, wonderfully wrong.
I had a little girl.
After I brought her home, after I’d folded all those blue bundles away and found the two little pink T-shirts I’d kept since my first pregnancy, I sat there gazing at her.
“Daughter,” I whispered.
And once I’d said the word, I couldn’t stop.
I texted my friends. “How are you? All good here. Loving my daughter.”
“Just thought I’d give you a buzz while my daughter’s in bed,” I explained when I rang my mum.
But, amid the celebrations, there was a strange undertone.
Some women were smiling too brightly at me.
And I could swear they were humming.
Was it the tune from Jaws?
I soon worked out what they had in common.
They all had daughters.
Now I’m not completely clueless.
I have Facebook.
I’ve heard, seen and read all about little girls.
Tantrums over tutus, hysterics over handbags.
The day after my daughter was born, a friend texted me a picture of a bright pink monstrosity, with: ‘Despite all your coaxing and adorable overalls buying, you will end up at Kmart buying this.’
My boys couldn’t give a toss about clothes – I could put each of them in a tutu and fairy wings and they’d head out the door without even noticing.
And I know daughter dilemmas extend beyond fashion.
There will be Facebook fights.
And selfie ‘situations’.
I am a girl. I know what we’re like.
We bitch, we cry, we gossip, we keep secrets.
Throw in whoever and whatever has replaced Miley Cyrus and Snapchat in 15 years time and oh mama are Learner Dad and I in trouble.
But that’s ok.
For now I’m going to just put it all out of my head.
For now I’m going to just enjoy my Fairy Floss.
Okay, so she’s not really.