Back before I had any children, I used to imagine myself as mom to a couple of boys. We would play in the mud, hunt for bones, read about tractors and bugs, and have loads of fun together. They would sit with me in the kitchen while I baked and eat cookie dough off of spoons while we told silly jokes.

I got pregnant, and just knew it was my first son. I had fun imagining what he would look like. Picturing his personality. Daydreaming about him. Only my little bubble was popped during my ultrasound. I decided I wanted to know the sex. And my son wasn’t a son. He was a girl. I mean, she was a girl. For a moment I had no idea what to do. Or what to think. I wasn’t disappointed, but I was worried. Worried because I don’t wear makeup. I can barely name three Disney princesses. The last time I wore nail polish I was 15, and it was gunmetal grey on my ultra-short nails so I could still play guitar. Around the same time my brother borrowed my clothes so he could look cool for his first high school football game. I’m not a girls’ girl. Never had been. What if my little girl was? What would I do?

I spent the remainder of the pregnancy excited, but nervous. Gifts featuring marabou feathers, chenille, and jewels started pouring in from all corners. What had I gotten myself into? When Ellie was born, I started the lifelong process that is getting to know my girl. And I learned the very coolest thing of all: I hadn’t given birth to a girl. I had given birth to a baby. To a person.

And at my house, we are rocking being a houseful of girls. And for each of us it means something different. Ellie happens to love sparkle. She adores glitter, her favorite color is pink, and she wants to wear nail polish. When she was about two years old and just starting to speak really well, she put on a necklace and started twirling in a circle. “Mama! I beautiful!” she said to me proudly. I don’t wear jewelry. And I sure as stuff don’t twirl in a circle proclaiming myself beautiful on the rare occasions that I do. It came from inside her. And you know what? There was nothing to worry about. Somehow the fact that I was watching her find her own way into a deeper understanding of herself made me forget all the things I thought I wanted. I love her. And so what if I don’t know much about glitter and nail polish? I now have the best guide ever to teach me all about it.

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Lorelei loves to color on things. Often things she’s not supposed to. She loves tractors and dead stuff. We pulled into the yard the other day and Mr. T was driving the Bobcat to dump a dead pig in the dead pig zone (there’s a small fence so the dogs don’t get at them). Lorelei insisted that I drive closer so she could see him dump it. Then when we got inside she found a little fence. I asked what it was and she said, “For dead piggies. Find me something dead.” I’ll get right on that little one.

Neither girl is afraid of bugs or snakes, or pretty much anything alive. Both will come outside and find animal tracks and poop with me, so we can see what’s been in our yard. Ellie helped me catch a gosling one day and then return it to its mom because it got stuck on the wrong side of a fence. Lorelei always talks about the salamander we found on the road one day and how it felt cold and “creeped” on her. Ellie is fond of wearing “boys’’” pants because they are more comfy. Lorelei has nighttime diapers with sharks and submarines on them.

Before I was a mom, I thought that it meant something in particular to have a little boy, or have a little girl. But my girls have taught me a lesson about gender. I’ve learned that my girls are people before they are anything else. And it doesn’t matter a smidge what their anatomy is— they like what they like. And I love them for who they are. For who they want to be. Every day that they are alive, I hope that I can have my eyes open and hold that precious, tender kernel of identity safe and sacred. I am their first teacher, but, you know what? They are teaching me, too.