Is it strange that I am more nervous about raising a little girl than I was about possibly raising a little boy? Sure, now I’ve got ribbons and glitter that I get to play with, but I remember growing up. I remember my mother’s curse. I don’t think I can raise me. I mean, I know Julia (that’s the name we’ve picked for her) will not be me; she’ll be her own person, but still. I remember growing up. I remember being a teenager.
Essentially, all the little girl stuff, I’m good with. It’s all the young woman, growing up thing that freaks me out.
Well, I’ve got a little over four months before she’s here, and I’ve got twelve years and 364 days after that before she becomes a teenager.
Little Miss Julia,
I have one wish for you, and—it’s not that you’re happy, though I want that for you, too—it’s something you can do for yourself. I have one wish for you: be kind. Of course I want you to be successful; of course I want you to be happy, but more than anything in this world, I want you to be kind.
I can do that, right? I can raise a kind child. I can. I will. Jake and I will.
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