I grew up the oldest in a family of five girls.
I deserve some kind of award for surviving.
Not only do girls fight, they are also very calculating in their expression of aggression.
I have a sister who utilized a five-day window after feeling wronged, during which time she would retaliate.
This means that if I took her shoes on Sunday evening, she typically waited until Thursday or Friday to lock me out of the house with no coat on and laugh through the glass door, as my hands froze in clenched fists from the -5 degree temperatures.
That is the calculation of a serial killer, if you ask me.
So, when I found out that I was having a third girl, I took a deep breath and tried to work out the knot in my throat.
I don’t know much about how boys are growing up, but girls are crazy — let’s just lay that one out on the table. There is no other, nicer way to say it.
Girls are almost all somewhat insane.
We are sensitive like baby fawns and calculating like Christian Bale in “American Psycho.” We want you to tell us we look nice, but we also want you to allow us to tell YOU that our hips and butt are as wide as the elephant’s at the zoo, and while you shall not dare agree with us, you cannot be too adamant in your disagreement either, as we will accuse you of thinking we are crazy (which we are).
We are expensive to raise, and find things like nice eyebrows, quality handbags and perfectly fitting jeans essential to our teen-age years survival, no matter the cost.
If you’re in the market for dating us (the single ones, of course), please know that we want you to be funny, smart, attractive (but not as attractive as we are), hard-working, physically fit but able to house an entire pizza if necessary, detail-oriented but not petty, neat but not obsessive and it would be nice if you had a lustrous and full head of hair, but you have to look nice if you’re bald as well … ya know, just in case it happens someday.
Girls are complicated creatures, I am learning. My girls love nail polish, dressy skirts and reptiles. Sometimes they curtsey and act refined and other times they pass gas and blame it on me.
I am sure boys have these strange little nuisances as well, but I cannot attest to that, as they are an endangered species in my family.
So, as I anticipate the arrival of my third daughter, I can only wonder what kind of girls I will raise. Will they like Barbie dolls and dresses or sweats and baseball? Or maybe they’ll like dresses and baseball. Will they wrestle each other and steal each other’s clothes like my sisters and I always did? Will school mornings be riddled with arguments over the bathroom?
This is all very likely.
But, would I trade it for anything? I think not.
Not sure if my mom feels the same way, but we will (for the sake of nostalgia and sentiment) pretend that she does.