Sometimes, I wonder if my mother has a secret mission to remind me of the unexpected truths of life. “Just remember, even if you had another child, it might not be a girl,” she said one day, her words lacking a little something called tact. Perhaps it’s the mother-daughter relationship that allows for this unfiltered honesty.
I’m the proud mom of two energetic, sweet-as-honey boys who keep me on my toes. When my partner and I decided to expand our family, we envisioned two children, spaced about five years apart—ten years of little ones and then we’d be done. Simple, right?
When it came time for the 20-week ultrasound for our second child, I felt a twinge of anxiety. What if it wasn’t a girl? What if I was destined to be a mother of boys forever? The thought filled me with a mix of excitement and dread. I hesitated about discovering the baby’s sex, but as soon as the technician moved the wand to the lower half, I knew. There it was—legs apart, a tiny penis waving proudly in the air. I couldn’t help but announce it before the technician could even confirm.
Growing up, I was surrounded by girls—my mom, my sister, and me. Picture three women going through PMS together; it was a whirlwind of emotions! Our home was filled with My Little Ponies, Barbies, and scrunchies. Now, I find myself in a world of boys, and I embrace it wholeheartedly. My sons are a joy; I adore everything about them and wouldn’t trade my experiences for anything. I feel fulfilled.
Yet, I can’t help but occasionally wonder what it would be like to have a daughter—dressing her up, braiding her hair, or guiding her through the milestones of womanhood. I know I might have had a daughter who wasn’t interested in the “girly” stuff, but still, those moments would be special. Sometimes, I feel a longing for those experiences, though nothing that truly aches.
But there is one thing I deeply regret missing out on, and it’s something no amount of magic or medical marvel can substitute. I will never witness my own daughter becoming a mother. Just thinking about that brings a heaviness to my heart.
Now, I know that if I had a daughter, she might choose not to become a mother herself. But let’s indulge in a little fantasy here. To the daughter I might never have, I dream of being there for you during those early motherhood moments. I want to hold your hair back while you face the morning sickness, be on the receiving end of your anxious calls about those initial baby flutters, and rush over to rub your feet when you’re feeling overwhelmed.
I want to be present at your birth if you invite me, respecting your wishes if you prefer solitude. I’d love to be your support system, helping you find your strength and confidence as you navigate the journey of motherhood. I want to help you settle in with your new baby, cooking meals and tidying up, and giving you the space to bond.
Watching you fall in love with your child would fill my heart with joy. I’d be there to reassure you as you adjust to your new reality, reminding you of the beauty in your messy, transitional life. I wish to see you reflect the strength of generations of mothers before you, as you embrace your role.
As for my two boys, they come from a lineage of nurturing fathers—men who aren’t afraid to express their emotions and connect deeply with their children. I can only hope that, one day, they’ll experience the joys of fatherhood. If they choose partners who welcome my support as they step into motherhood, I’ll cherish that too.
But there will always be a yearning—a profound ache—for the chance to share that unique rite of passage with a daughter of my own.
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Summary
This heartfelt reflection explores the author’s feelings about parenting two sons and the longing for a daughter. While celebrating the joys of motherhood, the author expresses a deep desire to experience the unique bond of sharing motherhood with a daughter, highlighting the emotional complexity of parenting.