I know what it means to be a girl

in Cherimie Crane/Contributors by

By Cherimie Crane Weatherford

The day-to-day chaos of life has never hindered my focus. My talents comfortably lie in the realm of stability amongst the whirlwinds of day to day living. Business conflicts, seemingly sporadic bouts of troublesome turmoil and looming deadlines do nothing more than cause a blink in my determination to seize the day.  I find more distraction in stumping my toe, losing my keys or being forced to read mundane manuals. The seemingly larger obstacles in life have never before thrown me all that much of a curve.  With me, the devil really does lay in the details of the paper-cuts and toe stumpers of life.

Pregnancy has taught me more things about myself than I truly ever cared to learn. Perfectly happy I was to not know myself all that well. Better suited as an acquaintance or Facebook friend, Myself and I got along rather nicely. Pregnancy is the unfiltered female mirror of all mirrors. There is no curtailing or coyly tip toeing around the realities a woman must face when she cultivates her person garden. It is a raw introduction to realities that otherwise rested underneath the sugar coating of sure-fire self-esteem.

Strength and perseverance have always been my little black dress. Faced with any formal life event, I reached confidently for my go-to outfit and accessorized only with grit and determination. Whether overly dressed or out of place, I managed. As my little person garden now blooms, my belly expands and my self-assurance finds itself clashing with the colors of fear, my little black dress just doesn’t fit.

Not only am I responsible for another living being, but God decided to give me a girl. Words that pierced my perception of reality like a knife in melting butter. Before I could process those obvious ultrasound findings, every scar, every sting, and every obstacle I had ever faced as a female rushed through my mind with a speed I had never known.  It wasn’t pink bows, ruffles and nursery themes, but the need to build a protective wall that would deter any earth shattering experience that every single breathing woman inevitably faces.

Honestly I cried. I cried for all the names I had ever been called, I cried for the limits I had to push, I cried for the lack of comfortable bras. It was a meltdown of monumental proportions. I know what it means to be a woman and at that one moment I just cried. How will I ever protect my little girl from being a girl? Now that is a toe stumper.

After the reserve of tears dried, the old familiar nudge of determination, grit and strength came through the haze of how. It is because of every name I have ever been called, the limits I was constantly pushing and the acceptance that no bra will ever truly fit that I am the awkward yet very capable woman I am. I will still build my protective wall the very best that I can and may the good Lord and Oprah help those that breach that wall to cause any discomfort to my little Mary. One thing is for sure, she has a long line of strong women before her, behind her and standing ready to guide her.

God help us, Reed and I are having a baby girl.