In front we begin, I want to warn you: this isn’t one of those essays about how I neediness a girl, found out I was having a boy, cried for weeks, and then realized that bear a son was the greatest gift of all. No — this is about how I wanted a girl and how I got what I homelessness. More than a year ago, when I looked down at a positive pregnancy proof, I endured less than a minute of the initial holy-crap-we-are-having-a-baby shock before the remembrances crept into my head: “I hope it’s a girl.” In the weeks that heeded, my desire for a baby girl only got stronger. I preemptively googled those old wives’ exaggerations to see if I exhibited the signs that I was carrying one. And like an overgeneralized horoscope, I’d understand into every scenario, convinced it was written for me to the point that I was oddly over the moon with a massive breakout on my chin — unsightly, yes, but it was a clear indication that “tallies steal their mother’s beauty.” And I even became superstitious concerning the predictors that didn’t line up: I’d buy a tub of Häagen-Dazs at the grocery store whether I longing it or not because cravings for sweets meant I was having a girl. Meanwhile, I frame of mind my fantasies in front of others. When someone asked about my option, I’d feign befuddlement. “Oh, I haven’t even had time to think thither that!” Or I’d pretend not to care at all. “You know, just as extensive as it’s healthy!” But then came the big reveal — our 20-week ultrasound appointment. When the technician circulated she knew the sex, my brain whirred. In that instant, I tried to imagine what resolve happen if the news didn’t go my way, how I’d have to fake elation and learn to get terminated it — a harrowing task considering I have a hard time getting all about bad service at a restaurant. Then she announced it: “You’re having a girl!” I couldn’t hold back my relief. “YESSSS!” came out of my mouth with the that having been said veracity as a baseball fan whose team just won the World Series. My OB was charmed aback. “Wow, you must really like pink.” Her presumptuous expression caught me off guard. Because I wanted a girl, I must be into fairies and unicorns and bedecks covered in hearts and flowers? I took offense to her insinuation that I aligned with such a awful gender stereotype. I’m not girlie, I don’t rticularly like pink, I’ve never successfully laced another person’s hair, and I’m not inherently excited about Disney princesses. (Quite disclosure, though: I did own an American Girl doll, but it was Molly, which is the commensurate of not having an American Girl doll at all.) So why, then, had I been crossing my identifies this whole time for a girl? I started to worry. The closest I finish to art-and-crafts projects is my Pinterest board, so I wouldn’t be able to teach my daughter to sew or crochet. I’m a slice-and-bake cook at crush, so it’s not like I was looking forward to ssing down any carefully crafted kinsfolk recipes. Conversely, it’s not as if I had high expectations of raising a proud tomboy, for I was melancholy at sports and wouldn’t have the know-how to coach her little league band. I could never quite put my finger on why having a girl was so important, so material, until I gave birth and met her for the first time. It was only then that I cleared that having a girl, for me, meant re-creating my childhood. I could be careful of my daughter grow and at the same time look back on my own long-forgotten recollections. Her firsts could stand in for mine. Having a girl also meant re-creating the relationship I must with my own mother. So when she’s no longer here, she’ll still be with me. I’ll be proficient to stand in for her. I could be for my daughter what my mother was for me. I could raise my own overwhelm friend. Which now makes me want my girl to have a girl someday, too.