“You know, even if you had another child, there’s no guarantee it would be a girl,” my mother remarked, her words lacking a hint of sensitivity. I suppose there’s something about the mother-daughter dynamic that promotes this kind of blunt honesty.
I’m the proud mother of two energetic, sweet-as-sugar sons. When my partner and I decided to start our family, we envisioned having two children spaced about five years apart. We imagined giving our first child our undivided attention, sending him or her off to school, and then repeating the process for our second child. A decade filled with little ones. Then, it would be done. Simple, right?
During the 20-week ultrasound for our second child—likely our last—I felt a knot in my stomach. If it wasn’t a girl, I would be a mom of boys forever. I would never experience the joy of having a daughter of my own. Up until the very last moment, I debated whether to find out the sex of our baby. But the moment the technician revealed the lower half of the baby, it was clear: legs wide open, little boy parts proudly on display. I announced it before the technician could.
Having grown up in a household filled with girls—my mom, my younger sister, and me—I remember the emotional chaos: doors slamming, tears flying, and the constant presence of My Little Ponies, Barbies, and scrunchies everywhere. Now, my life is filled with boys. I embody my name—Wendy, surrounded by my very own lost boys. Yet, I find boys refreshing and endearing, and I adore my sons—everything about them. I truly feel fulfilled.
Occasionally, I wonder what it would be like to have a little girl around. The pretty clothes, the hair-braiding sessions, shopping for her first bra, and discussing the nuances of womanhood. Sure, there’s a chance I could have had a daughter who didn’t fit the mold of “girly,” but I would have at least gotten a glimpse into that world. I feel pangs of longing for these experiences sometimes, yet nothing that deeply impacts me.
However, there is one profound yearning that remains—a longing that my sons can never fulfill, no matter how many magical breakthroughs occur. It’s the heart-wrenching realization that I will never witness my own daughter embrace motherhood. Just thinking about it causes my heart to ache a little (or a lot).
Now, I understand that even if I had a daughter, she might choose not to become a mother, or she may face challenges in doing so. But for a moment, let’s indulge in this fantasy.
To the daughter I may never have, I want to be there for you during your pregnancy—holding your hair back as you struggle with morning sickness. I want to be the one you call when you’re uncertain whether those gentle flutters are gas or your baby moving. I’d love to come over when you’re exhausted from pregnancy, rubbing your feet, easing your aches, and making you a comforting grilled cheese sandwich, sprinkling in some of that “mommy magic” to help you through.
If I’m invited to your birth, I want to be right there, respecting your wishes if you prefer I stay away. But if I’m present, I’ll let you squeeze my hand until it feels like it might burst, bury your face in my shoulder, and scream if you need to. I want to help you trust your body’s strength, no matter how your birth unfolds.
I want to assist you with nursing, providing space for you to find your rhythm. I’ll cook for you, tidy your home, and let you rest as long as you need with your little one. You can send me away whenever you wish. I want to witness you fall in love with your baby and hear you express how overwhelmed you feel, like the “old” you is scattered everywhere like laundry.
I want to remind you that what you’re feeling is normal and that you look stunning in the morning light, messy ponytail and all. I want to breathe in your courage, wisdom, and strength—qualities you may not yet recognize in yourself. I want to see myself and my mother reflected in you, feeling connected through the generations of women in your beautiful, tired eyes.
I want to watch you sleep, your baby nestled against you like punctuation in a sentence. I want to be there, silently observing your peaceful breaths.
My two sons come from a lineage of nurturing, involved fathers—my dad, their dad, and my husband’s father. These are men who shed tears at the birth of their children, who would never hesitate to let their newborns sleep against their warm chests. If my sons choose to become fathers one day (please, at least one of you!), I’ll be there, tears in my eyes, as they embrace their new roles, growing alongside them. Perhaps they’ll partner with women who will allow me to step into that mothering role again as they themselves become mothers.
Yet, I can’t ignore the persistent ache—a longing to experience that sacred journey into motherhood with a daughter of my own. If you’re curious about more on this topic, check out this post at Cervical Insemination. Also, if you’re considering at-home insemination, visit Make a Mom for their reliable kits. Additionally, for insightful information on pregnancy and insemination, Facts About Fertility offers excellent resources.
Summary
As a mother of two sons, I reflect on the heartache of not having a daughter. While I cherish my boys, I find myself yearning for the unique bond and experiences that come with having a daughter, particularly witnessing her journey into motherhood.
Leave a Reply