When I found out I was pregnant at the end of 2013, I was ecstatic. Over the moon happy. And then, I was terrified. I remembering telling myself out loud "You are fine. You are totally fine."
 

The truth is, in the beginning, I really wanted a boy. I figured that Greg could teach him all the things boys should know, and I, as a momma, could fill in all the rest with love and snuggles. I imagined a boy in overalls and Converse, carrying a fishing poles with muddy hands. I knew a girl would be so different and depend on me to teach her about girl stuff. Pink, lacy, sparkly, girly stuff.
 

My longing for a little boy came from the fear of failing a little girl.
 

When we had our sonogram at 16 weeks to find out the gender of our little nugget, we couldn't tell. The baby had its legs stretched high over its head so the tech couldn't tell us one way or the other. That's when I knew she was a girl. It was the already apparent stubbornness.
 

I was right.
 

I then promised myself that I wouldn't be the mom who had everything pink. I was wrong on that one. Our house is very obviously the home of a little girl. Pink blankets and curtains in her bedroom. Stuffed animals and dolls. Dresses and cute shoes. Frozen toys everywhere. Hair bows.
 

Now, I can't imagine NOT having a girl. Being able to tell her she is beautiful and paint her tiny toe nails and buy itsy bitsy swimsuits is the highlight of my life. So naturally, I had to put her in my wedding dress and veil and capture it. Pearls and lace are her thing.
 

She is my favorite person.