Here, five Femail writers reveal whether they’re prepared to bare all in front of their children.
Lauren Libbert
, 47, lives in North-West London with her two sons, aged ten and 11, and says:
My boys are used to seeing me naked. We have a bath together at least once a week and I often walk across the landing from my bedroom to theirs without a stitch on.
They’ve definitely become more intrigued with my body as they’ve grown older; there’s more pointing and sniggering and they ask lots more questions. Is that where I fed as a baby? What are those bumps? Why does the hair stop there?
I answer matter-of-factly, without embarrassment. But there are rules. No poking or prodding; our bodies are not shameful, but they are ours and should be treated with respect.
I always chatted to my mum when she was in the bath. As the youngest of five children, it was the one place I could catch her sitting still and I’d pop my feet into the water at the end and we’d sit and chat. I don’t think I even noticed she was naked.
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I’ve always been very comfortable with my body and I’m convinced this openness in childhood is the reason. I want the same for my sons. To be comfortable in your skin is a gift.
Kathryn Knight
, 46 lives in South-West London with husband Duncan, 36, and their four-year-old daughter Connie. Kathryn says:
I've always been a let-it-all-hang-out kind of gal. Over the years my friends have got used to me padding round in the buff on holidays. (‘For goodness sake put it away’ is a common lament.)
It’s a theme that continues at home, where unless it’s sub-zero, I sleep in the nude and happily lounge around post-shower with nothing on. I saw no reason to change that when Connie came along and, as a result, she’s entirely accustomed to my naked form, especially as she comes into bed every morning for a cuddle.
As far as I’m concerned, it’s gloriously healthy: my body has already proved a useful starting point for discussions about the difference in my shape and hers and how our bodies work.
Tessa Cunningham
, 59, has two daughters, aged 25 and 26, and lives with her partner, Richard, 59, in Winchester. She says:
I take my hat off to Victoria Derbyshire for walking around naked in front of her boys after having had a mastectomy. My daughters are now 25 and 26, but it’s something I have never been able to do.
When I had a mastectomy — losing my right breast at 48, just like her — my daughters were 14 and 15. Victoria’s sons are 11 and 13.
I told myself I was protecting them. The truth is I was protecting myself. I felt so horribly maimed, I was convinced anyone who looked at me would be revolted. Seeing fear or disgust in my daughters’ eyes would have pole-axed me.
Unlike Victoria, I chose not to have a reconstruction — I could not face more surgery. So, where once there was a breast, now there was just an ugly red scar. I felt I’d been butchered.
Given how unhappy I was, I think I was probably right to shield my daughters. To them, of course, I pretended I was perfectly fine with losing a breast. Only on occasions such as shopping for bras with them did my bravado fade a little. Lingerie stores — once lovely places to linger — became graphic reminders of all I had lost.