Four years ago, when I became pregnant with my daughter, I convinced myself that she was going to be a boy. I tried not to think about the possibility that I might be having a girl. I tried to think about how much fun it would be if I were the only girl in a house of boys; I'd be able to sign letters "Mary and the boys" and have that statement encompass the whole family, including the cat. But when an ultrasound showed my baby was going to be a girl, I got to drop all pretense. I hadn't wanted to admit it, but I had a boy and I really, really was deeply, intensely, secretly hoping that my second child would be a girl. Now I was free to shout to everyone who would listen, "YAY! My baby's a girl!"
And at nearly four, my girl is a wonder. Everyone who meets her will tell you three things: that she's wickedly smart, that she's stunningly beautiful and that we're in big trouble because she knows how to use both her brains and her beauty.
Her grandparents love to tell about a night about six months ago when they were watching the kids. My son was peacefully asleep, but my daughter just would not go to bed. At 10pm she got up and stood at the top of the stairs and asked for some juice. Her grandfather told her that there was no juice in the house and she needed to go back to bed. Well, she replied, he could go to the store and get juice. When he responded (not entirely truthfully) that it was late, the stores were closed and everyone who worked there was asleep, as she should be, she responded that juice came from fruit and there was a fruit tree outside. Her grandfather responded that it was nighttime, it was dark and chilly, and it was time for bed. My daughter went into her room, found some warm clothes and dressed herself, then went and found a flashlight and came downstairs. She wouldn't be cold because she had warm clothes on and the darkness wasn't a problem because she had a flashlight. She was ready to pick fruit and make juice. She looked so sweet and eager and happy, and she had been so clever and persistent, that her grandparents could only laugh. They took her out, picked the fruit, made the juice and gave her a sippy cup to take to bed, where she stayed happily the rest of the night.
It's hard for me to believe that this little girl is my daughter. She is so separate from me and so much a part of me; she is such a mystery and a delight. It's like spending each day looking at a beautiful work of art and realizing, not only that the painting hangs in your house, but that you are one of the artists who painted it. And you think, "I couldn't possibly have anything to do with something this exquisite. Where did it really come from?"
Last night, I could hear her singing nonsense to herself, softly ("deet deedle leedle deet, deet deedle leedle deet") at 10:30 at night, as she tried to keep herself from falling asleep, after trying unsuccessfully to get me to let her come downstairs and play on the computer and drink chocolate milk and eat crackers with melted cheese. (Mama may wonder at her charms and her beauty, but Mama is much less susceptible to them than the rest of the world.) And as I listened to her sing, I wondered who I am to be so lucky.
