My ever-practical personality didn’t disappear merely because I was now a mother of an ever-impractical species. But my shvigger insisted a girl may not wear plain, stained white undershirts, geyarshent from her older brothers, and duly arrived with pink ruffled ones, the kind with a tiny flower by the neckline.

For months, I’d almost explode from euphoria seeing her sleeping under her pink blanket. Buying her a bathing suit was a deliriously exciting milestone. And Tatty found a pink Hello Kitty briefcase for our princess to take to playgroup.

The first time I realized this baby was objectively a female, a creature different in kind to those who had preceded her, was when she flipped her head to the side to give her father an ingratiating smile. I’ve studied five variations of boys, one so masculine and tough-looking that my mother teased him, “Bully, watch out!” and others more feminine and gentle. None of them had ever bent their heads to the side when smiling. Or twirled their hands. Or pranced and skipped daintily.

If she ever turns out vain, you can blame me, as I cannot get enough of complimenting her on how “pretty” she is. My favorite nickname for her is “retty plower” (corruption of “pretty flower,” coined by her older brother as a toddler pointing out a green leaf growing between the cracks of the pavement). When dressed up, she looks around bashfully, expecting compliments, and she loves admiring her reflection.

She’s also a profound pain-in-the-neck, spilling stuff, squeezing out wet paper towels, throwing game pieces all over, smashing eggs, dissecting Mommy’s pocket book, scribbling on the walls, insisting that if mommy is sitting and eating, so is she — on Mommy’s lap and from her plate.

But she’s a girl. After five boys. A girl!

My “retty plower” served a healing role. When I was in labor with her, my grandmother who lives underneath me noticed symptoms that were later diagnosed as cancer. Throughout her recovery from surgery and radiation, there was a burst of joy visiting from upstairs, always in a different colored stretchy. And we would honor Elter Bobby with choosing the matching headband (we had 24 colors in all, for $8.99 from Amazon!).

Bobby loved to sing, “Hendel and Mendel went for a buggy ride, Mendel said to Hendel won’t you be my bride?!” as we giggled. (This was especially funny as Elter Zeidy’s name is Mendel. We gave him Hendel’s first piece of mail as we confused the H for an M.)

We still visit Bobby on the way to playgroup almost every day. Hendel knows where the candy and snacks are and waits for nobody’s permission to help herself. (Once, when there wasn’t enough supervision, my perfect princess ate quite a few and, to protect herself from prosecution, hid the wrappers in the garbage.)

Bobby still delights in her assortment of decorated dresses, sparkly, shiny, matching colorful tights; blond braid and waves.

I’ve discovered that it’s not that girls don’t play with trucks. They do. She puts her dolls inside, rocks them back and forth and says, “ah, ah, baby, ah, ah, baby.” Her brothers also play with dolls — they’ve discovered that they’re great for throwing, as are toy carriages for giving rides.

As they zip Hendel around the dining room table, I close my eyes and daven, “Hashem, please, please bless my little girl with a person in her life who will also know that a doll is a baby and its carriage is for taking it bye-bye. Please bless her with a sister.”

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 730)