I am lucky to have two healthy children.
I’m luckier to have one of each.

I’ll be honest—I think I was a little bummed when we found out our first was a boy. I secretly hoped for a girl. But looking back, I’m so glad he came first. I’m as Type A as they come, and I needed to learn to let go of things like watermelon stains I couldn’t scrub out, dirt under fingernails, and skinned knees. And did you know there’s a difference between a digger and an excavator? Life lessons, I tell you. (Also: diggers are not excavators. Don’t mix that up. Ask me how I know.)

He’s the typical firstborn: mature, responsible, drama-averse. He’s good at most things he tries the first time. I don’t help him much with homework—he has the internal drive to study Spanish on his own over the summer. He’s an athlete. A musician. And he and I are very close.

Then my daughter came along.

I had fully resigned myself to “probably another boy,” so when she popped out, I looked at her and said—out loud—“What am I supposed to do with you?” I was not about to start buying big hair bows. And she agreed.

She’s the perfect mix of girly-girl and tomboy: sprinting across the yard in a tutu while planning a wedding for her Barbies and also body-slamming her brother. She’s carefree. Fearless. A Broadway star in our home every day. We don’t need Spotify or Amazon Music—we have her. (The volume is always on max, and the playlist includes show tunes, Barbie commercials, and dramatic monologues.)

And yet… we butt heads constantly.
I like to be on time. She runs on her own time. And that time is never synced with reality.
I want her to clean her room. She’d rather live in the chaos.
I say, “Shower.” She says, “After this one video” that turns into 12 more and a sudden urgent need for string cheese.
And on and on and on—until someone cries. Usually me.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve texted my friend—whose daughter is just 12 days younger—saying I’m not sure how we’ll survive the teen years. And I’m still not.

But I have hope.

This year—4th grade—was a big growth year. We stopped fighting about getting out of the house in the morning. I stopped doing so much for her, and she started taking ownership of her own tasks. We started using our powers for good instead of mutual destruction.

And then we were given an unexpected gift.

During basketball season, and into baseball, my son was out of the house most evenings. It gave my daughter and me something we didn’t realize we were missing: time. Sure, some of it was filled with homework or showers. But some of it was filled with fun. And reading. And cuddles. 

Now when I ask her to do something, I hear, “OK, Mommy!” or “I’m coming, Mommy!” or “Right, Mommy?”
(Is this a trap? Possibly. But I’ll take it.)

Years ago, I took a parenting course that stressed the importance of just ten minutes of one-on-one time with each kid every day. I never made a conscious effort to do it. But once we were gifted the time, I started to see what a game changer it was. I genuinely enjoy hanging out with her more than I used to. And I think—miraculously—she enjoys me too.

Hopefully we’re building the kind of relationship that will carry us through the teenage years.
I’m glad I get both sides—the rule-follower and the rebel, the checklist and the chaos, the deep sigh and the dramatic eye roll.

If you’ve survived raising a daughter with big feelings and bigger opinions, please drop your wisdom below. I’ll be taking notes. 📓✨