We spent almost an hour watching you yesterday. Checking everything, we watched in awe as the ultrasound technician counted your kidneys, and the four pumping chambers of your heart. At last, you moved enough that we were able to see you and answer the question that had been resting in both of our minds. The technician smiled and said, “It’s a little girl.”
Suddenly, you were even more real to me. I have no idea why knowing your gender made that bit of difference, but now I can picture you, as a toddler, as a little girl. And I spent the day thinking about daughters, and about being a little girl.
I hate it that I don’t remember my childhood. It’s something that has always bothered me, mainly because I think there should be some explanation, and I worry that the explanation either doesn’t exist, or it is something I don’t want to hear.
So my memories are all borrowed from stories I’ve been told about myself and my family when I was a child. And frankly, I don’t like all of them. I want to protect you from competition and judgments placed based upon beauty. I want to save you from princess stories and play cook sets and the color pink.
I promise that I will never encourage you to compete based upon things beyond your control. I promise that you will always be smart and strong first, and pretty second. I promise that I will never compare you to other people. I want to help you to be fierce and free. I want your opportunities to be unlimited.
I can’t wait to meet you.