It was a mixed bag of feelings when I found out I was pregnant: mostly afraid and happy all at the same time. I was excited to begin the work of providing this new tiny person with a life that I had only imagined as a youngster. I had it all planned out in my thoughts, and I knew she was a girl deep down. I’d put her in the loveliest costumes, I’d eventually give in and learn to French braid to keep her golden locks in check, and I’d melt when she said “Mama,” and even more when she said “Mama, I love you.” I knew that phase would rapidly morph into tantrums, the terrible twos, finicky eating, and finally, a fearful second grader learning to be independent, fighting over why I don’t allow sleepovers, and forbidding makeup when she is suddenly 12 and wants to appear 15. She’d be 15 in an instant, thinking about dating, males, what to dress and what not to wear, and if she liked music or sports. Would she despise me as much as she loved me, or would there be a 50/50 split? I imagined myself getting her the perfect dress for senior prom, all dolled up and ready to cap off her senior year in style. After years of ups and downs, we’d finally become friends. She’d be excited to start college, but she’d feel homesick the first night. She’d come home during recess and rave about the boy in Chem who she couldn’t stand. He always tries to chat to her during her most difficult lesson, which is quite aggravating. I advise her to slow down after class because it’s possible that’s the only time he’ll be able to catch her. I’m not aware that this immediately thrusts her into the arms of the man who will become her husband. She follows Mama’s advice and waits after class, where he wins her heart with his laughing.
