The Sisterhood of Girls

I was always petrified of what it would mean to raise a girl, to see her become a woman - afraid I might fail her, set a poor example, love her in a way that was half-assed, harm her with my own insecurities, resent her. I preferred boys to girls since kindergarten years when the worst a boy could do was give me cooties. Meanwhile little girls...

So when during my first pregnancy, the ultrasound tech said I was having a boy, Archer, I cried. First, out of joy and then, relief that I could do this. I could be a great boy's mother. I had done it before.

With Fable I wasn't so sure.

... ... ...

She pulls herself up on the couch where I lay panting - my jeans unbuttoned and rolled at the waist, belly exposed. It's a thousand degrees and Fable is still damp from face-planting in the dog's water bowl.

"Hi," she says before falling hard into my belly.

"Kiss?" I ask.

"Mmmmm," she sings, bringing her lips to mine before clapping. We clap together. And then without prompting her, she makes the "mmmm" sound again and leans in. She pulls away and tilts her head, looks up and I think, for this moment that I must be the most loved human in the land.

She pulls away slowly, her eyes flickering open, smiles and points, squints her nose and starts clapping again.

Her happiness is palpable. Sometimes it even stings.

... ... ...

Fable turns one next Friday so naturally nostalgia has found me. I've spent much of my time this past week reading through a year's worth of blog entries, a first for me.

I usually hate reading what I've written. I've never even read my book all the way through. It's too hard to find weaknesses in yesterday's reflection. But scanning through the past twelve months I found myself in completely new territory - I found myself enjoying what I read instead of cringing, cowering, punching myself in the gut repeatedly for being such an asshole. I was inspired and in love and confident!

It sort of felt like I reading myself grow up. Embrace the wonder and badassery that is woman.

... ... ...

"Coming Fable," I call from the end of the hall. "One second!"

She is crying for me and I'm on the toilet. I left her in the other room to play with her stacking cups so I could pee in peace but she doesn't understand "peace." All she knows is to cry when she turns around and I'm not there.

The pat, pat, pat of her knees on the hardwood gets progressively louder until her face appears around the corner. She found me. Her face says, "phew!" before crawling straight to me, giggling hysterically, punch-drunk from little sleep, pat, pat, pat...

She holds her arms open and widens her eyes.

"I'm almost done, I know. I know."

I wipe, flush and wash my hands as she slaps my ankles with hands brown from dirty floors."

I pick her up and she wraps her hands around my neck like we've been apart for a thousand years, doesn't let go.

Over the years I've had equally as many negative experiences with women as I did girls as a child: partnerships that faltered, identities foiled, threats and hate-mail from friends that were, a thousand lessons learned on the kinds of women I ought to surround myself with. I was always afraid of girls and now I understand why. I've spent much of my life attracted to the wrong ones.

I'm not afraid of women nor ashamed as I once was by my femininity. I'm slowly, carefully, finding my people. Surrounding myself with women who inspire, guide, elevate. No use spending time with people who don't.

Fable taught me that one.

I'm not overwhelmed by the prospect of guiding my daughter. I look forward to sharing with her my weaknesses so that she can build her own strengths. Of empowering her and myself in the process, taking pride in my femininity and helping her cultivate and respect hers.

I am proud of the woman she has made me. Thank heaven for little girls.

I assumed that mothering Fable would change my perspective, perception, livelihood, but I hadn't expected that giving birth to a daughter would help me find my worth as a woman.

Cue Spice Girls.

GGC