My household is a testosterone-fueled zone. I’m married to a guy who spends his time building boats, and my two sons are masters of the art of burping the alphabet and engaging in epic wrestling matches. Shirtless antics abound as they strut around, flexing their “muscles.” Family game night is less about games and more about who can pin whom down on the couch, and yes, potty humor reigns supreme.
Let’s not even get started on my perpetually pee-scented bathroom, thanks to the aiming challenges faced by the males in my life. Our home is dotted with plastic dinosaurs and ninjas lurking among the houseplants, and our Netflix list is heavily weighted toward action and spy flicks. Stereotypes may not be our intention, but they certainly seem to fit.
I adore my boys; they’ve injected a thrill into my life that I didn’t know was missing until they arrived. They’ve taught me to embrace bravery, to be loud, and to let go of the small stuff, like broken lamps. Raising them has been a wild and fulfilling ride.
As I approach the birth of our third (and final) child, I’ve resisted the urge to call my doctor to find out the gender. I know I shouldn’t feel this way, but I can’t help but wish for a daughter.
I yearn for that iconic mother-daughter bond that I’ve always heard about. I dream of dressing her in adorable outfits and possibly hosting tea parties (if she’s into them—my boys certainly aren’t). I want to have those empowering conversations about women supporting women.
I can’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy when I listen to my mom friends talk about their daughters sneaking their eyeliner or borrowing their favorite leggings. I find myself daydreaming about the hair-braiding sessions and creative science projects they share on Instagram, imagining the same moments with my little girl.
My heart aches to pass down the wisdom and stories from my own mother, grandmother, and my dynamic aunts who have shaped me. They instilled in me the strength and resilience that define my womanhood, alongside a fierce feminist spirit.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m raising my sons to be feminists as well. We have open discussions about girl empowerment (“Yes, girls can run fast too!” and “Absolutely, girls can be ninjas and even presidents!”). We dive into topics like consent and personal boundaries. Their dad sets a fantastic example, and we’re committed to raising respectful boys.
Still, there’s a unique, unspoken connection between mothers and daughters that I yearn for in our boy-dominated home. My bond with my sons is undeniably strong and fills me with love and pride, but I can’t ignore the desire for that special connection with a daughter too. I refuse to apologize for my feelings, and I remain hopeful for what the future holds.
This article was originally published on May 11, 2017.
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Summary: The author shares her humorous yet heartfelt thoughts about the anticipation of her third child, secretly wishing for a daughter amidst the chaos of raising two energetic boys. She reflects on the joys and challenges of motherhood while expressing a desire for the unique bond that often exists between mothers and daughters.