I was not a girly girl. I hated playing with Barbies. I was dirty and played outside and climbed trees and caught salamanders. My favorite color was never pink or purple. My older sister was a bully, terribly mean. My mother was unpredictable. I made all my stuffed animals males because boys were safe. Today I have a husband, a son, and two male dogs. I worry about letting someone into my safe little home who requires a feminine pronoun. What if she is mean? What if she judges me?

How odd is this: When DS was a baby and a toddler, we’d take showers together after swimming for convenience. I was actually worried the other day about showering with my daughter, because I was afraid she’d judge my body. My butt too big. My boobs too small and sort of uneven. Honestly! A baby! She’s not going to think any of that, at least until she is a tween.

From very early in my pregnancy, I felt I knew my son. I have no idea who this creature is inside me. We have a name picked out but I don’t for the life of me know if it will suit her, whereas with my son I just knew.

I am blunt and sarcastic. What if I am too harsh with a little sensitive girl? What if she is a bossy brat like some of the girls we meet at the playground who make my skin crawl? What if she can smell the fear on me? What if she likes Polly Pockets?

And oh lord junior high.

Little girls are a mystery to me. I have several amazing female friends that are like my family. I think I enjoy the company of women—it’s girls I’m unsure about.

Reassuring thoughts, anyone?