I always dreamed that I’d be a mom of all boys. Three boys, to be exact. Loud, dirty, sports-obsessed boys. I’d drive the SUV that always smelled of feet, and every time I opened the back hatch, I’d be dodging soccer balls, football pads, and whatever else came tumbling out at me.

I’d be the cool mom. The one who always had snacks and who laughed at fart jokes. I’d be the hostess at the house where everyone wanted to hang out. I’d be the loudest cheerleader on the sidelines of their games and their lives. They’d all be taller than me and tease me, much like their father does. I’d shoo their big feet off my furniture and ruffle their unruly hair.

I loved my imaginary life with my imaginary three boys.

When we found out our first child was a boy, we were overjoyed. You’re not supposed to go into your 20-week sonogram with a preference, but my husband and I were both crossing our fingers and toes for a boy. We could hardly contain our excitement. We were one-third of the way to my dream family.

I relished my role as a boy mom. I quickly acclimated to all things trucks, sports, and dirt. I was meant for this. When I found myself pregnant again, I just knew, it was going to be another boy.

But I was wrong. The sonogram clearly showed that we were having a girl.

I wish I could tell you I handled the news with grace and maturity. That a healthy baby was all that mattered and that seeing 10 perfect fingers and 10 perfect toes erased all disappointment.

It didn’t. I mourned my unrealistic dream of the perfect, three-boy family. I was certain that my (at that point) 16-months of experience as a boy mom wasn’t going to translate to parenting a girl.

I didn’t like girl names. I didn’t like girl bedding. I didn’t like girl clothes. I knew that I was doomed.

As her due date grew closer and closer, I began to imagine life with my little girl. I picked quilt fabric, painted her room, and of course bought hairbows.

When I went into labor, we learned that she waits for no one. After delivering herself, with not a push for help, we knew we had a special girl on our hands. We had a few scary minutes of begging her to cry and turn pink.

In that moment, I knew my perfect family included her. I knew I was meant to be her mother. She was perfect for me, and I was perfect for her.

As soon as she was in my arms, all doubts slipped away.

Now that we’ve taken a trip around the sun together (she’s one on Wednesday), I still think about what my life would be like with three stinky loud boys. I’m so grateful God didn’t let me choose. Because I would have missed out on her.

She completes my real-life family, and it’s better than I could have ever dreamed.