I had steeled myself to the idea of being the mother of three boys.  I had imagined more blue, more trucks, more trains, more dinosaurs.  I had hated myself for that sinking disappointment that smothered me for about two minutes when I'd been sure Liam was a girl.  When his anatomy was visible on that swirly screen all I'd said was, "Oh," and was immediately convinced that the baby I'd lost between the boys had been my only chance at a daughter.  I love my boys.  I couldn't imagine them any other way.  And I would have loved a third one unequivocally.  I abandoned dreams of  Easter dresses and prom dresses and wedding dresses and french braids and tears over boys and tea parties and princesses and searching the house for the makeup that she stole from my case but said she didn't.  I gave it all up for eighteen more years of Toy Story and skateboards and never having enough snacks in the snack cupboard.

When the ultrasound technician whispered conspiratorially that it was a girl I struggled to understand - like she'd spoken in some language I couldn't comprehend.  I leaned up on my elbows, slimy stomach protruding over the blue sheet she'd tucked into the top of my favorite maternity jeans, looking for her mistake on the screen not sure why she would be so cruel.  "Are you sure?" I asked, daring her to admit her joke and face my wrath.  She was sure.  "See the hamburger?"  Apparently, they know it's a girl when the what-what looks like a burger.  So, my baby's a Happy Meal and now I get to request a girl toy when I go to the drive-through at McDonalds.  I suddenly didn't care how fat I got.  I was going to have a daughter!

I was beyond thrilled.  There's some magic in the mother/daughter relationship that can't be duplicated anywhere else.  Pink was suddenly coming into our home in little outfits and blankets and greeting cards.  The boys, especially Zander, were excited that a sister would be joining them and I was suddenly not so outnumbered by men.

She arrived, slower than Liam, faster than Zander, to the chant of my best friends, "Push, Alanna, PUSH!" and Scott's steady hand on my shoulder.  "It's a girl!" the doctor announced in a but-we-already-knew-that voice and she handed me my slimy, perfect baby.  "I'm NEVER doing that again!"  I was done.  I am complete.

She was gorgeous from the start.  Beautiful skin.  Swollen Jolie lips.  Perfect wee toes.

She will turn 2 this August.  She is still the most beautiful thing I've seen and her personality amazes me.  Her gentle spirit and sprouting sense of humor inspire me.  Zander adores her.  So does Liam, even though he says almost weekly, "Mommy, I don't think we should have had a baby."  She doesn't like princesses but she loves her plastic tea pot.  She won't watch Sleeping Beauty or the Little Mermaid - I'm stuck with Toy Story every day.  Again.  She carries around a Woody doll and asks for "Bzzzz" dreams at bedtime.  She grabs the back of my neck and pulls me in for a kiss.  She leans her head on my shoulder and pats my back and says, "Ahhhhh."  She holds the Rockband mic against her mouth and sings, "LaLaLa."  She shakes her hands in the air and bounces when I put on music.  She LOVES Dora the Explorer and answers, "Yeah," to every question they ask.  She picks her nose and her toes.  She calls me Momma and likes to make sure my belly button is still there.  She wants to snack all day but won't eat her supper.  I adore her.  She is my favorite daughter.