Is It Just Me? by Chrissie Swan Page A

a healthy appreciation of fun and manners. So far, so good. And I suppose raising a daughter would be the same in some respects.
    So why am I so spooked? Are they really that different to boys? They seem so much more sophisticated, even from an early age. Little girls seem more powerful, more formidable. Bringing up a daughter feels to me like a greater responsibility somehow.
    I just feel like I’d be getting away with less.
    My friend was telling me the other day that her daughter gave her a mini-counselling session in the car. After the ten-year-old had stopped singing all the words to the new Bruno Mars song, she turned to her mother and suggested she take better care of her appearance and maybe tried wearing a few “younger” things, because it was obvious she was a beautiful woman but she wasn’t, and I quote, “doing herself any favours”. Ten years old. And she wasn’t being disrespectful. My friend was wide-eyed over her latte when she whispered to me, “Know what the spookiest thing is? She’s RIGHT!”
    How could her daughter, who has only been alive since 2002, know so much? And how would I deal with a daughter of my own, looking at me with my own eyes, telling me truths I knew but didn’t want to, or simply could not, admit? That’s what I’m scared of.
    Girls are strong – the ones I know seem to have been born with a great idea of who they are and it’s up to the parents to figure it out. I’m just nervous that I’ll misjudge them. That I’ll think they’re an A when really they’re a B. Tears, slamming doors and the words “I hate you” will ensue.
    My sons are so straightforward. And I have found parenting them so darned easy. A joy. Lots of cuddles, lots of laughs, lots of running around, lots of stories and away you go. Girls just seem like the real deal to me. Emotional, thoughtful, analytical. Argh!
    I will have to keep my fingers crossed that if a girl ever does come along into our goofy old lives I won’t totally lose the plot and take my parenting cues from Ab Fab ’s Eddy Monsoon or The Lohan Guide to Raising Girls .
    Â 
    21st October 2012

Letters to your younger self
    There’s a craze that’s gone bonkers, and, no, I’m not talking about the hyper-charismatic Korean genius who goes by the name of Psy and has taught preschoolers and grandparents alike to stroke their own legs while singing, “Heeeyyyy, sexy lady!”
    I’m talking about the trend of writing letters to your ten-year-old self. The letters started dripping in a few years ago and, since then, they’ve become a deluge of pretty much the same warnings. The most common of these include, “don’t let the turkeys get you down”, “you will find someone who really loves you” and “don’t believe that mean girl when she tells you you’re fat and useless”.
    When I turned ten, something extraordinary happened. My mum gave me my own key to the family home so I could let myself in after school and I never looked back. In fact, it was a great year. I wore shoes from Sportsgirl and listened to Wham!’s Make It Big and saved up all my pocket money for a cat which ended up celebrating my twenty-seventh birthday with me. Things were sweet. And, frankly, if I could go back to 1984, all I’d say to myself is, “You probably do need a bra for those sore little walnut boozies but, apart from that, carry on.”
    Not so to my 23-year-old self. So let’s go instead to 1996 …
    Dear Chrissie,
    Are your eyes feeling small and toxic because you ate four home-brand dim sims last night for dinner? Thought so. That’s cool. One day you’ll be able to afford something exotic like rocket and bocconcini, so don’t sweat it. I do, however, wish to point out that if you hadn’t just sunk yourself into debt for that white Grundig TV, you’d probably be enjoying a plate of