I have a daughter. Lord, help us.
I thought for sure she was a boy. I dreamed of boy stuff, that she was a curly headed little guy. I thought for sure these were signs.
I was 17 weeks pregnant, to the day, when I went to my ultra sound appointment and Kevin told me it was a girl. “Are you sure?” I asked. “See the hamburger there? That’s a girl.” He said.
Boogie has a hamburger.
Rutherford had to work that day so he wasn’t able to go with me to see the hamburger for himself so I called him as soon as I got to the car.
“Guess what honey. It’s a girl!“
“Are you sure?” He was unsure.
“Yes, I’m sure.” I was sure.
“Sometimes they get it wrong. You should go back and ask if they are sure.” He was sure they weren’t sure.
“I asked. They are sure.” And they were sure sure, so I was sure.
“Oh.” He’s was still unsure.
That was right about when the panic set in for the both of us. I was sure I was being punished for be a pissy teenager. I remember what I was like as a teenage girl. It was not pretty. I’m lucky my parents didn’t put me down. Lock me in the cellar (we lived in California where people don’t have cellars, but still..). Send me to a convent. Or other wise rid themselves of me.
|The face of evil.|
As the days passed and the news sunk in I started to ask people with daughters, how the heck do you do it?
My father, who has 2 daughters and 3 sons (I’m his favorite) said, “Girls are easier…until they start wearing makeup.”
My father-in-law, who has 2 daughter’s and 1 son (strangely, I’m his favorite too..kidding!), told me it was Rutherford who was the difficult one. Boys are more adventurous and fearless and Rutherford was prone to climbing furniture and hurting himself. At 3 years old, this child closed himself in the fridge because he wanted to see the food talking (like on Sesame Street). Can’t make this stuff up, folks.
And someone who shall remain nameless (mostly because I can’t really remember who said this but the actual quote is still burning my brain, “With boys you only have one penis to worry about. With girls, it’s 100′s of penis’s you have to worry about.”
Awesome. Sign me up.
Not long after we found out what was headed for us, Rutherford implemented the No Pink rule. Even going so far as to tell me to inform my shower guests that gifts of the pink nature will be frowned upon by the establishment.
It didn’t take long for him to realize that, as far as baby gear companies are concerned, there are only 2 colors to choose from: boy and girl. Really?
Those of you that pay attention and read the last post, you will have noticed that Boogie’s walls are, in fact, pink.
So now there I was, getting fatter and fatter with every passing day. No donut in town is safe. Boxes of Lucky Charms are fleeing the city in fear. And growing along with my waistline is my anxiety.
What if I am Yolie?
For those of you who don’t know, Yolie, is my ‘mother’. Not to be confused with my Mom. The one who put flowers in my hair for church when I was a little girl, taught me how to put on purple eyeshadow and was there when my daughter was born. It is also my Mom who always seems to know what I need to hear and when. You can’t put a price on what it feels like to have your parents tell you that you’ve grown up into someone they are so proud of.
Now I haven’t spoken to Yolie for going on 9 years now. I had to finally say ‘when’ and stopped the hemorrhaging. There is a VERY good reason for this but I will share it with you on a day when I feel I need to repeatedly punch myself in the mouth. Cuz that’s what talking about her is like.
Puts me in a stabby mood. And I’m not in the mood to be stabby today.
Regardless, I still share her blood and unfortunately, some of her traits (as much as I hate to admit it). Because of this, I spent my entire life not wanting a daughter. And by not wanting a daughter, I mean BEGGING the Lord God Almighty to never ever, by any means, bless upon me… a girl child.
Apparently, God didn’t get the email.
I am probably in Gods #spam folder with the online Canadian Pharmacies and the Nigerian millionaire.
My biggest fear in the world is that some day my precious, beautiful child will some day look at me the same way I looked at her.
I just couldn’t live like that.
Then I started to obsess about it. Asking myself questions about how and why we become our parents, for good or bad. I replayed every argument, every ridiculous conversation over and over in my head. Every lie. I needed to know how I could avoid making the same mistakes.
When Boogie was finally here, it wasn’t until it was just her and I alone, in the middle-of-the-night stillness of the house, that we bonded. It was in those quiet moments that I would introduce myself to her and she would lay there, so trusting and comfy, in my arms. It’s then when you wonder how anyone could possibly hurt a child much less, how you could knowingly and purposely hurt your own.
Then one day, as I was driving down the street, it hit me. I am nothing like Yolie.
::happy epiphany dance::
Because, I could never even fathom doing what she has actually done to her poor children. I could never pit them against each other, or walk away from my baby, or otherwise terrorize. I could never ignore one while doting on another while pretending, yet another, doesn’t exist.
On top of all that, I could never do all this and yet act like the victim, the child, the buddy.
I didn’t need another friend. I needed a mother.
So I guess I’m in the clear. In the clear because that kind of stuff doesn’t even cross my mind as being in the realm of possibility.
See? I can relax now. Nothing alike.
I would, however, have loved to get her button nose or the eyelashes that have now been passed down to my Boogie.
I am thankful every day that I am almost exactly like my Dad (so is Rutherford). But don’t you DARE tell him I said so.
I am silly and corny and talk way too loud. I have a tendency to repeat myself if I think I said something even slightly humorous.
And if I got half Dad’s heart and a quarter of his devotion and acceptance of his children, than I have one lucky kid.