It’s not that I don’t love boys. As a preschool teacher, I found the little boys to be darling, at least the good kids. They were so sweet and affectionate to me, as if I were a second mother.
The girls were too, but of course, they were often sassy.
I love having a girl.
When we had our ultrasound for the gender–this was November 1, 2010, I expected a boy.
I was sick with hyperemesis gravidarum, and finally out of the hospital. I still felt like crap, and wasn’t eating, but I wasn’t living in the hospital anymore. After 32 days of a hospital stay, being home felt glamorous. My husband was one of two boys and after being so wretchedly ill and physically in bad shape, I didn’t think I could be pregnant again. I wanted a daughter so if I had one child, I would have one who would stay my friend until I was very old. As one of four girls, I wanted this badly, but tried to repress it in case I was blessed with a son.
When the ultrasound tech Michelle told me, “It’s a girl,” I sobbed.
My girl. My one child was going to be my daughter.
I was over the moon.
Why do I love girls?
It’s certainly not the attitude I get:
Mommy, I’m running away and I’m NEVER Coming Back. I’m running far, far away and you won’t find me–2 year-old daughter.
No Mommy not you, JUST Daddy. Go away.
I don’t like you Mommy.
I’m going to hit you now Mommy.
It’s also certainly not the outfit requests:
No, I want that shirt and this bow. No, I want that shirt and this other bow. And a necklace. And a ring.
It’s not the way she fake cries and when I catch her she laughs and says, “Ha, yeah, I was just faking.”
It’s not the way she used to fling her body as a barely 2 year-old to the ground but as her head got closer to the floor, would delicately lay down so as not to hurt herself.
I love having a girl because I love seeing such an independent little strong being. I love seeing a strong woman grow. I love that she’s verbally quick, and remembers everything, even if she likes to tell me how she remembers when she was bad somewhere or how she remembers every damn toy at every place we go to.
I love having someone to buy clothes for, and they’re actually cute clothes.
I love that she likes musicals and admires my clothes at times, although I feel silly admitting that.
I like that she in her own sweet little 2.5 year-old way, tells me to screw off because she wants to be her own person.
I like that when we are older and fighting, she will still come to me to share with me the secrets that women share together.
When she gets her period and is moody, she will have someone who has been there and done that. Times twenty million.
That maybe one day if she chooses–no forcing on my end–she will have a baby of her own, and we can share the journeys of motherhood. That I can pass on my wisdom and mistakes and trials.
That if she chooses to nurse her daughter, I can share the time I spent nursing her as a little one.
That if she marries a man, we can commiserate in our rantings about this mysterious other sex.
If she marries a woman, I can just be excited for another woman around!
That if I end up in diapers, she will hopefully care for me from time-to-time, or at least just come to visit and bring me my fuchsia lipstick and nail polish.
She’ll pet my fifty dogs, and be okay with it.
Because daughters are forever friends.
I am so glad to have one, and will never take the relationship for granted.