When I found out that my daughter, was, in fact, a daughter (I believe the tech said something about a "cheeseburger" when describing my fetus, but I'm not entirely positive about that), I began to cry. Tears of joy.
See, I'd always expected I'd be the mother of three sons, which I'd accepted as my lot in life. I love my sons like I love butter and I wouldn't trade them for anything in the world. Not even a yacht.
But to find out that I was going to be the mother of a daughter? Me? With a daughter? I was beyond thrilled. And terrified.
To be fair, my mother's big threat was that I would one day be "blessed with a child like me," which seemed unlikely if I had all boys. While I wasn't particularly concerned by this, especially because she'd been threatening this since I was a wee tot myself, I was still nervous.
A daughter. Would she hate me? Would she be anything like me? Would we go to war when she started dating?
I'd prepared myself for sons. Just not a daughter.
In order to get into the festive, "I have a girl child" mood, I finally visited the baby girl department at The Target. That walk from blues and greens to pinks and reds was liberating. I began to stimulate the economy one pink thing at a time.
When she was born, I could hardly believe my luck. She WAS a girl (I'd worked Labor and Delivery long enough to have seen some MAJOR errors in sexing a fetus) and she was mine, all mine! A daughter!
That tiny baby is now a 4-year old girl, and I still bask in the delight of having a daughter. While my own mother tried to get me to wear tiny overalls and striped shirts so that I didn't end up thinking Barbie was the most perfect woman on the planet, I balked and insisted upon party dresses. For every occasion.
My daughter is the same way.
I'd figured the girly girl gene would skip a generation or so, but no. She's scrappy, tough, fearless, and believes that sparkle is, in fact, a color.
Last weekend, as we cleaned out my jewelry box, she oohed and ahhed over each item as though it were a precious jewel and not something I'd randomly picked up from a street vendor. Finally, I asked her:
"Mimi, do you want a jewelry box for your pretties?"
She nodded happily before hurling her tiny body into my arms. "Oh, THANK you, Mama! THANK YOU!" I couldn't help but smile.
I did manage to find her one this week, pink with "diamonds" as per her request, on sale at The Target (which handily doubles as my boyfriend) and I'm telling you that I've never seen her happier. She has been, of course, taking my jewelry for it, but I don't mind. She takes careful care of her pretties, making sure that everyone who enters my home is able to have a full tour of her jewelry.
This weekend, I introduced her to perfume, something she's been lusting after ever since I got some perfume in a pink bottle, and she's obsessed. I've had to tell her that no, in fact, we do not put perfume on before bed, just lotion, but that we can put some on in the morning so that we smell pretty.
It's a great way to get her normally slow ass to get dressed.
The kids were all here on Saturday, playing in the Batcave (our bedroom), and being suspiciously quiet. I did wonder a bit about that, considering quiet = trouble, but I wasn't about to forgo a couple minutes of peace for much of anything.
Soon, they burst out of our bedroom, smelling as though they'd just stepped back from the perfume counter at Macy's. Eyes watering, I asked them what had happened.
"I was making them smell pretty, Mama," Mimi proclaimed proudly.
I just laughed.
"And so you did, Lovie. And so you did," as I gathered her up into my arms and twirled her about the room until she shrieked with laughter.
These really are the best days of my life.