My household is dominated by boys. My husband, a skilled boat builder, and our two sons seem to thrive on a symphony of energetic chaos. They find joy in the most peculiar things, like burping the alphabet and engaging in impromptu wrestling matches during family game nights. The air in our home often carries a hint of mischief, with discussions about bodily functions being a common occurrence.
The bathroom consistently has a subtle odor of pee, thanks to the lack of aim from the males in my family. We have a smattering of plastic dinosaurs and ninjas hidden among our houseplants, and our Netflix queue is filled to the brim with action flicks and spy thrillers. Although we don’t intentionally reinforce gender stereotypes, they seem to thrive in this boy-centric environment.
I cherish my sons deeply; they have infused my life with a newfound energy and joy that I didn’t realize was missing before they arrived. Through parenting them, I’ve learned valuable lessons about bravery, resilience, and the importance of letting go of minor frustrations—like broken lamps. Raising my boys is an incredible journey, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
As I approach the birth of our third and final child, I still find myself resisting the urge to call my doctor for the baby’s gender. So, please don’t judge me—I know it’s not the popular opinion, but I truly hope this baby is a girl.
I long for the cherished mother-daughter bond I’ve always dreamed of. I want to dress her in cute outfits and perhaps enjoy tea parties (though my sons have never been fans of that idea). I yearn for those empowering conversations about womanhood that I hear so many mothers enjoy with their daughters.
When I hear my mom friends share stories about their daughters borrowing their eyeliner or favorite leggings, a twinge of envy hits me. I scroll through Instagram, captivated by photos of hair-braiding and creative science projects, daydreaming of sharing similar moments with a daughter of my own.
My heart aches to pass down the wisdom and stories from my mother, grandmother, and the vibrant aunts who have shaped my life. They imparted lessons of strength, resilience, and feminist ideals that I hold dear.
That said, I am committed to raising my sons as feminists too. We have open discussions about gender equality, emphasizing that girls can be just as strong and capable as boys. Topics like consent and personal boundaries are part of our regular conversations. Their dad serves as a fantastic role model, and we are dedicated to raising respectful individuals.
Yet, there’s an indescribable connection between mothers and daughters that I feel is missing in my household. While my bond with my sons is profound and filled with love, there’s a piece of me that yearns for that special relationship with a daughter. I won’t apologize for this wish; I hold onto hope for what the future may bring.
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In summary, I find myself wishing for a daughter amidst my boy-filled world, desiring the unique bond that comes with that relationship while embracing the joys of raising my sons.