What Breaks My Heart Most About Not Having a Daughter

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You know, when I was discussing family plans with my mom, she bluntly reminded me, “Even if you have another baby, there’s no guarantee it will be a girl.” Ah, good old mom, always keeping it real, right? Maybe it’s the mother-daughter dynamic that allows for such unfiltered honesty.

I’m a proud mom of two energetic, sweet-as-sugar boys. My partner and I envisioned having two kids, spaced about five years apart. We thought we’d invest our time in each child, sending the first off to school and then doing the same for the second. Just ten years of little ones, and then we’d be done. Simple.

During the 20-week ultrasound for our second child, I felt a tight knot in my stomach. What if it wasn’t a girl? I would be a mom of boys forever, never knowing the experience of raising a daughter. I hesitated about finding out the baby’s sex, but when the technician moved to the lower half of the little one’s body, it was unmistakable: legs wide open, penis aimed straight up. I announced it before the technician could.

Having grown up in a house filled with girls—my mom, my younger sister, and me—it was a whirlwind of emotions. Picture three women experiencing PMS at the same time! Now, I’m surrounded by boys, and it’s definitely a different vibe. I’m Wendy, and they’re my little lost boys. Honestly, I find boys refreshing. I adore my sons and wouldn’t trade them for anything. I feel complete.

Yet, I occasionally find myself daydreaming about what it would be like to have a daughter—dressing her in cute outfits, braiding her hair, guiding her through the ups and downs of growing up. Sure, there’s a chance she might not be into the “girly” stuff, but I can’t help but wonder about that world. I get these fleeting pangs of longing, but nothing that truly weighs me down.

However, there’s one significant thing that stirs a deeper sense of loss: I won’t get to witness my own daughter become a mother. Just thinking about it breaks my heart a little (a lot). Sure, I understand that if I had a daughter, she might not want or be able to have children, but let’s indulge in that dream for a moment.

To the daughter I may never have, I wish I could be there for you during your first trimester, holding your hair back while you’re sick. I want to receive that call when you’re unsure if those little flutters in your belly are gas or baby. When you’re exhausted from pregnancy, I want to come over, rub your feet, and whip up a grilled cheese sandwich to help ease your discomfort. If you invite me to your birth, I’ll be there, and if you prefer I stay away, I’ll totally respect that.

If I’m there, I’ll hold your hand as tightly as you need while you scream, cry, or whatever helps you through the moment. I want to empower you to trust your body during childbirth, regardless of how you choose to give birth. I’ll help you nurse your baby (if that’s your choice) while giving you space to find your rhythm.

I dream of cooking for you, cleaning your house, and letting you rest with your baby as long as you need. You can kick me out whenever you want. I want to witness the bond you form with your child, to hear you express how overwhelming it feels to let go of the old you. I’d tell you how beautiful you look, even with messy hair and no makeup.

I want to soak in your strength and wisdom, even if you can’t see them yet. I want to see reflections of myself and my mother in you, in the generations of women before us shining through your tired but beautiful eyes. I want to watch you sleep, your baby nestled against you, as you both breathe softly.

As for my two boys, they come from a long line of loving, hands-on dads—my father, their father, and my husband’s father. These are men who shed tears of joy when their babies arrived and would gladly let a newborn rest on their chests through the night. If my sons decide to become fathers someday (please let one of them!), I’ll watch, teary-eyed, as they embrace their new role. Perhaps they’ll partner with women who’ll allow me to mother them as they embark on motherhood.

But still, there’s that lingering ache—a deep desire to share the journey of motherhood with a daughter of my own.

If you’re interested in exploring motherhood options, check out some helpful resources, like this post on intracervical insemination. You can also visit Make a Mom for expert advice. For more insights into fertility and pregnancy, Science Daily is an excellent resource.

To summarize, while my heart aches for the experiences I’ll miss with a daughter, I find joy in my sons and the unique bond we share. The longing remains, but I cherish the moments I have.