By AMY CHENEY

I found this today in my daughter’s room. My daughter is seven. It was innocently sitting on the floor amongst the Polly Pockets, friendship bracelets and a variety of other crap seven-year-olds love to hoard.

Diyet. Jesus.

Where did she learn the word diet? How does she even know what a freaking diet is?

Whose fault is this? Is it mine because I let her play with Barbies? Because sometimes she’s allowed to watch Total Drama Action? Is it because when I draw with her I can only draw stick figures?

Seventeen Poosh-ups two times a day.

I felt sick. Physically ill. Like someone had knocked the air from my chest.

I could feel myself getting increasingly anxious the more words I was able to interpret from her seven-year-old spelling.

Three Appals, One Per, Two Keewee Froots.

How did this happen?

I am smart about this stuff. I have a degree in early childhood studies. Our family focuses on and promotes healthy eating and healthy bodies. Our attitudes are reasonable and balanced. Weight has never been an issue in our home – it is, for the most part, irrelevant.

I have never stood before my husband and queried ‘does my arse look big in this’. Ever.

Rid my bike three time a day.

And then I got angry. Really, really angry.