I lift them off the rail and gleefully examine them. “You’re not buying those mom, are you?”

I’m gobsmacked. I cannot for the life of me understand where that is coming from.

“These are, like, for teenagers.”

I defiantly and dramatically turn the panties around, turn the size label out and the tag: “Where does it say teenagers?”

She looks momentarily flustered and I add: “Do you want me to be a sexy mom or a mom in ugly underwear.”

I can see those screws turning in her head: “Just an okay mom”. She walks away. I hip-swish out of the shop forcing her to pick up her step.

I’m kinda offended for two reasons. One: Did I just let a nine-year-old dictate my lingerie choice? Two, am I over the hill? Have I let myself go so much that my daughter thinks a pair of French knickers isn’t suitable for me? Or, have I been so busy parenting her and neglecting a social life so much that she doesn’t imagine me as a sexy mommy? Okay, sexy chick. A friend later says maybe it’s what the knickers represent. Sexual intimacy with a guy.

It hits me, my daughter has never seen me with a man.