Damn, I hate it when he’s right. But he was. From the beginning. The day I peed on the $14 stick and announced our pregnancy status to Craig, he said “it’s a girl.” I was not as convinced. Throughout the pregnancy he held firm that we were having a girl, while I waivered. And secretly hoped.
Some say that every woman wants a baby girl. That we all want little girls that we can outfit in pink dresses and take shopping. Others say that the bond between a little boy and his mother is unlike any other. I’ve heard both sides. But I still wanted a girl. I had visions of doll babies, cheerleading camps and prom dresses. I saw myself pushing her through the mall in a stroller and graciously accepting comments about how cute she was.
Now that I have a daughter, I’m beginning to comprehend the responsibility of raising her. She’s not just my baby. She will be a classmate, a friend, a partner, and, if she’s lucky, a mother. While I still want to dress her up, buy her dolls and have long talks about boys, I also want to teach her many of the things that my mother taught me. I want her to learn to be independent but not be afraid to ask for help. I want her to identify the things worth fighting for and work like hell until she gets them. I want her to always be safe, but take risks and push the boundaries a little. I want her to know how much she is loved.
This baby that squeals when I blow raspberries on her belly will have her toes stepped on and her heart broken. She will try and sometimes she will lose. She will want things that she can’t have. My job is to help her grow with each loss and praise every win. To be her biggest champion but not carry her through life. To let her struggle as she finds her way. To support her every single time.
And to teach her that a new pair of shoes can cure almost any bad day.
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