The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2500 by Angharad Copyright© 2014 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

---

I sat holding my newest daughter. I was as confused as she seemed to be. I still didn’t know what she wanted possibly because she didn’t, or was that, he? I felt like drinking a large glass of red wine and going to bed. I was emotionally wrung out, so how Danni felt, I had no real idea.

“D’you want me to phone the football team and say you’re not well?”

“Would you, Mummy?”

I nodded. She handed me her phone after dialling the number. “Yellow, it’s Cathy Cameron, Danielle’s mum; I’m afraid she’s not very well this evening, so she won’t be there this evening.”

“What? You tell ’er the England junior squad coach is ’ere thisevenin’ so I don’t care if she got ebola, just tell ’er to git ’er pretty little arse down ’ere right now.”

“Did you hear...?” I asked an empty space as she’d vaulted off the bed and was in the bathroom, hopefully washing off the mess on her face.

“C’mon, Mum, get yer arse in gear, we’re late.”

Life with Danielle was anything but boring and providing I took a parachute and rope with me, I’d probably cope with the highs and lows of teenage life; or her version of it. I went and changed into something warm if I was going to be standing in a playing field for the next couple of hours. While she was running about chasing a football I might just have a chance to digest what she told me, although it might well be different tomorrow.

I explained to Stella and Jacquie what was happening and they agreed to hold the fort until we got back. Danni came charging down the stairs. “Have you got everything?”

“Yes, Mummy.”

“Clean knickers?”

“Oh shit,” she turned to run back upstairs.

“Here,” I handed her a pair I’d taken off the laundry pile, they weren’t ironed but they were clean and aired. We ran to the car and I drove to the training ground as quickly as I could. Danni was lacing her boots on as we went.

They appeared to have just started training as we arrived and Danni pecked me on the cheek and dashed off to join the rest of the team. The coach said something to her and she answered him but I couldn’t hear what was said. For a few minutes I watched them doing warm up exercises and stretches, she seemed to have become more lithe since she lived full time as a girl and I felt a momentary jealousy of her youth. Then my mind drifted back over what she had said.

She was jealous of Julie because Julie was a pretty girl who enjoyed appearing to be sexy and the attention it got her. Danni wanted the attention but also fancied wearing the sexy clothes. I tried to think of the stuff Julie wore: lacy, revealing in a limited way, tight fitting because she had a good figure and sometimes sequins or beads which seem to be on everything these days.

So what did that make Danni—transvestite? In which case was she a mutilated one now? Do girls like wearing sexy things? Most are so bloody uncomfortable, how could they? But then, just look at the sales of shoes with ridiculous heels—they’re far from comfortable to walk more than a few steps, but loads of girls wear them presumably of their own volition. So it seems girls do wear sexy clothes by choice. Then judging by the way everything from baby food to expensive sports cars is sexed up, with beautiful girls exposing lots of flesh, is it surprising? If people like current pop stars or actresses are anything to go by, then looking like a porn star or hooker seems to be the way things are going and the increasing sexualisation and objectification of the female, especially young female, bodies seems to be the modern trend. As a feminist and mother of loads of girls, I don’t like it because it sends the wrong message. It tends to suggest, ‘I’m available for sex.’ Which isn’t necessarily what the wearer is actually thinking.

The feminist in me feels that anyone should be able to wear what they want and go anywhere in perfect safety. It also feels that sex should be an act of love and respect between two consenting adults who are in a fit state to give that consent; and just because a girl is dressed provocatively, doesn’t mean she’s looking for sex or that no means yes.

I’m not opposed to women indulging their own sexual needs providing they exercise due care to protect themselves and their partner. I also hope their partner is as responsible and not just a mass of boiling hormones.

Most religions, because they’re created and run for the benefit of men, tend to fear female sexuality, which is why they cover everyone in shapeless, dour clothing except priests celebrating some sacrament, when they dress up like Christmas trees, usually in long frocks. Some prevent the equality of female participants like the Church of Rome, conveniently forgetting that women were equal in the original Christian church. Instead they suppress women and try to suppress male sexuality as well, even though we know that just increases the risk of mental illness.

Strict Islamic followers seem to suppress female identity by enforcing the wearing of burkas, which is the equivalent of walking round like a black or grey pillar box. It seems it’s more convenient to the fools who run such groups that women are second class or owned by their men, so objects; or that in hiding anything remotely attractive to a man means the men don’t have to control their own urges, which means most of them are like animals—but animals which spout so called sacred texts while blaming the females for rousing their beastlike behaviour. Talk about double standards, it’s off the scale, especially as they seem to consider girls as adult women as soon as their menses start.

We talk about the difficulties of being transgender, being a natural female in much of the world, seems fraught with dangers too and forms the largest minority group in the world. And I’d helped Danielle join it—oh boy.

Could I help her if I didn’t know what she felt she was because she wasn’t sure herself? My brain felt just about ready to explode with ramifications on ramifications. I’m not sure Brian Cox could have coped with the endless possibilities of what ifs. All I could do was try and remain calm—calm and patient—calm and patient and loving. Bugger, this getting like the Monty Python Spanish Inquisition sketch. I’ll try to prevent myself becoming judgemental and try to give her the protected space to explore herself and what she wants to do while reassuring her that we all love her, helped by Stephanie’s professional expertise and advice.

She said something about wanting to be my daughter. As far as I was concerned, she was that already. Perhaps some sort of ceremony or paperwork could help that. We need to get her declared officially female but that could take some time with the gender recognition people, so perhaps I could suggest to her we work towards it, then we could see the solicitor and get the paperwork changed to reflect that status—and a week later she’d probably want to change back—wonderful.

There was a knock on the car window and it made me jump violently. “Mummy, come and meet Mike Butcher, he’s an England scout.” Integrating what I’d just been thinking and this latest snippet made my stomach flip—oh boy, this could get complicated very quickly.