“You know, even if you had another child, there’s no guarantee it would be a girl,” my mother bluntly said one day. Tact isn’t always her strong suit, but perhaps the mother-daughter bond allows for such unfiltered honesty.
I am blessed with two spirited, sweet-as-sugar sons. When my partner and I decided to expand our family, we envisioned two children, spaced about five years apart. We wanted to cherish the early years with one child before welcoming the next. Ten years of little ones, and then we’d be done—easy peasy.
During the 20-week ultrasound for our second child, I felt a knot in my stomach. If this baby wasn’t a girl, I’d be navigating life as a mom of boys forever. I wouldn’t know what it felt like to have a daughter.
I debated whether to find out the baby’s sex until the technician revealed the truth. The moment I saw the unmistakable sign, I couldn’t help but announce it before she did.
Growing up, I was surrounded by girls—my mother, my younger sister, and me, all in one house. Picture three women experiencing PMS at once: emotions flying high, doors slamming, and a plethora of dolls and hair accessories scattered everywhere.
Now, my world is filled with boys. I embody my namesake: I’m Wendy, and they are my little lost boys. Honestly, I find the energy of boys refreshing and endearing, and I adore my sons completely. Still, I sometimes find myself wondering what it would be like to have a daughter. All the cute clothes, the opportunity to braid her hair, and the chance to guide her through milestones like getting her first bra or navigating her first period. Yes, those thoughts make me long for a girl now and then, but nothing that truly aches.
However, there is one deep-seated longing that I can’t shake. It’s the one experience my sons can never fulfill, no matter what miracles might occur, and it’s the reason I feel regret about not having a daughter.
I will never witness my own daughter become a mother. Just thinking about it brings a pang to my heart.
I know that even if I had a daughter, she may choose not to become a mother, or it may not be in the cards for her. But let’s indulge in this fantasy for a moment.
To the daughter I might never have, I wish to be there for you through every moment of your journey into motherhood. I want to hold back your hair during the early days of morning sickness, feel the excitement when you call to share those first flutters of life, and support you as you navigate the challenges of pregnancy.
I want to be present for your birth, if you want me there, and respect your wishes if you prefer to go it alone. I’d gladly be your support system, whether that means holding your hand during labor or simply giving you the space you need to find your groove.
After your baby arrives, I want to be the one cooking for you, cleaning your home, and allowing you to rest as much as you need. I want to watch you fall in love with your little one, hear your worries about motherhood, and remind you how beautiful you are in those early days, even with messy hair and pajamas.
I envision the legacy of gentle, nurturing fathers in our family—my own dad, my husband, and their fathers—who have all shown love and tenderness to their children. If my sons become fathers, I’ll surely be moved to tears watching them embrace their roles.
Yet, despite all this joy, there will always be a yearning in me—a deep ache to share that profound journey of motherhood with a daughter of my own.
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Summary
This heartfelt reflection explores the emotions of a mother of two sons who longs for the experience of having a daughter. It delves into the joys and challenges of motherhood, the unique bond between mothers and daughters, and the bittersweet feelings associated with not sharing that experience. The author expresses a desire to be part of her hypothetical daughter’s journey into motherhood, while also cherishing her role as a mother to her sons.