her able hands

I know, it’s all book tours around here lately, and we’re one of today’s stops for the It’s A Girl: Women Writers on Raising Daughters blog book tour. This book is the follow-up to the provocative and inspiring It’s A Boy: Women Writers on Raising Sons, both edited by Andrea Buchanan, author of Mothershock.

I was terrified of having a boy when I was pregnant with Tyler, but I knew in my heart that the squirming fish who spent the last four months trying to break out of me by way of my tender ribs with flying fists and kicking feet was a boy. I loved him the moment I set eyes on him as he combat crawled his way up my body on the delivery table to find my breast, but really, I had no idea what to do with a boy.

I feared repeating the mistakes I made with my little brother Derek when he was a small kid. I yelled at him in near despair for doing the things he did, for his boyness that I didn’t understand. Like taking a pee with his best friend, the two of them crossing “swords” to make a “V” and laughing so hard they made a mess all over the bathroom. Sorry D. You know it’s true. His energy was so different from what I was used to, constant motion and chatter, an ongoing dialog with himself or anyone who seemed to be listening. Tyler is so much like him, it’s spooky. They’re both beautiful in a thousand ways. I can’t believe how lucky I am to have them both in my life. Boys. Definitely not girls.

I gobbled up It’s A Girl over several late nights, Lila curled up next to me, her soft snores the snare drum to her father’s big bass boom, often with tears leaking onto my pillow. I loved reading Jennifer Margulis’ essay, because she swore she would eat her hat if the baby was a girl, and I said the exact same thing. I know, I know, I’m mentioning Jennifer again. I can’t help it. I love Jennifer. I want you to love her too. But not too much, because then she might love you more than she loves me! We can’t have that.

Anyhoo…I couldn’t convince Chris to take my surgical cap off and hand it to me after the Dr. finished wrenching the small body from my womb, via the side door. The Dr. said as if it was no big deal, as if none of us would have thought differently, because he’s said it several times a day for many years, and to him it’s just one more, “It’s a girl.”

I burst into tears, choking on myself, and said, “No waaaay.” I didn’t believe him at all, I was so unwaveringly certain another boy was coming into the world through me. I was ready for him, another boy child who wouldn’t need me for anything deeper than the basics (food, shelter, and transportation.) With the spinal drip morphine already making its way into my system I fixated on the idea that I’d lost the bet and here was this little girl, so now I had to eat my hat. I only got to look at this brand new female creature for a minute, and touch my fingers to her round cheek before she and Chris made their way to the nursery, where he apparently kept his hand on her the entire time, a look of surprised bliss on his face. It was described to me later, by my support crew (Mom, Julia, Kate, Sabine, Lorin…) that he looked like he had just discovered what love really is.

In the meantime, I was stoned in the recovery room, chatting with the nurses about the fact that I could read their nametags even with my eyes closed, and they said “Heh, another one. That happens sometimes with the morphine, you can see through your eyelids.” I kept asking for my cap or a hat of some sort because I lost the bet and had to eat it, but they ignored me and bustled about the dark room, peeling sticky tape electrodes off of my skin, adjusting my IV drip, talking about their July 4th plans for the next day.

I rediscovered love for myself, in a whole new way when I got to hold Lila hours later. She fit into my arms and latched onto my breast so simply, with such hunger and need. She pushed her warm skin against mine with every cell in her body. My girl, I didn’t expect her. My heart and body were ready for her without even knowing it.

Joyce Maynard’s essay, “The World’s Most Beautiful Baby—Take Two” made me feel less embarrassed to admit that I am so smitten with my daughter’s beauty. I can look at her for hours and hours, and often when she’s difficult, I can pull myself out of the irritation by noticing the wicked arch of her dark eyebrows, and the way her chin comes to an elfin point. I get lost in the forest of soft curls that spiral across her strong shoulders, the hair fine and silky, streaked with golden white stripes the minute she steps into the spring sunshine. I think of the money spent to achieve that stripy look, and hope her hair stays like that forever. It’s vanity in the extreme, not for myself, but for this small person who is only just beginning to form likes and dislikes, and to feel her uniqueness.

She likes to wear jeans or overalls with a tunic style dress, and her worn out, thrift store ladybug rain boots. A baseball cap on backwards, her hair spilling out of it in tendrils, she’s a vision. I cannot look away. Girly and rough-and-tumble both, the perfect mix of pretty and strong already and she’s not yet three. I am so in love.

I can’t stop myself from telling her how gorgeous she is, how beautiful. It’s a constant running commentary that just flows from my mouth unconsciously even while I’m showing her the practical things in life. “Let’s go down to switch the laundry, pretty girl.” “Can you help me chop these mushrooms, gorgeous?” “Sit here and make your letters while Mommy finishes writing, sunshine girl.” Her cheeks always hold a blush, and her lips are a cliché, a perfect rosebud surrounding a wide toothy grin, topped by a pert nose.

I know I give enough attention to her mind and her spirit too. Witnessing her explosion of learning, the groundswell of new connections she makes every day thrills me to no end. Her personality strengthens all the time, and I am so happy to see her becoming so independent, but staying so tender. I want to steer her clear of the crushing perceptions of beauty in our culture; the perfect size 4, geometrically balanced features, unhealthy associations with food, and dependency on external approval in order to feel whole. Yet the words tumble from my lips day and night, and now she talks to her baby dolls, “Oh, you’re so sweet, pretty girl. Don’t you look lovely.” What if I’m creating a monster? Such a pretty monster.

Raising a daughter and a son is like having a double sided fun-house mirror hanging in front of my face day and night. Like any mother willing to look, I’m constantly meeting my own reflection in my children’s words and habits, having to own the aspects of myself that they have taken on by osmosis, genetics, and maybe also in order to teach me to be a better mother. Reading this book has me thinking about so many of the parts of my life that often go unexamined because life gets too busy, and because sometimes it’s too scary to look that closely. I cannot recommend this book, and her brother, “It’s A Boy” enough. They’ll take you places you didn’t even know you wanted to go.

Technorati Tags: It’s A Girl, blog book tour, It’s A Boy, Andrea Buchanan, Joyce Maynard, daughter, beauty, son, mother, Reading

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