Growing up, I was never the girliest of girls. Instead of playing with dolls, you could usually find me involved in a game of wiffle ball with my brother. I was an excellent tree climber and mud pie maker. I would trample through the forests around my parents’ house and not care if I came back dirty and gross. Most of my friends were neighborhood boys and we would ride our bikes across gravel roads for hours on end.
This is why I’ve always felt more conditioned to being the mother of boys.
When I found out I was pregnant with a girl, I would wonder (almost worry) if she would epitomize all things frilly and sparkly. Or if she would be just as happy stomping through mud puddles.
So far, Abby has become a pint-sized fashion diva; if she doesn’t care for the dress she’s currently wearing, she’ll try to take it off. She gravitates towards pink. She likes to have her hair brushed. She lights up when someone calls her pretty. She has a fetish for shoes. She doesn’t like to be messy. She’s gentler, yet more demanding. She’s cute and she knows it.
She’s a definite girl. A frilly, sparkly little girl. Who hopefully won’t mind stomping through a few mud puddles as she grows older.