I am the mother of a seven year old daughter. I didn’t know I would have a daughter until she was placed on my chest and I begged her to take her first breath. But after that first inhalation, as her body turned from that terrible lifeless blue-grey into a beautiful living pink, I knew I had a daughter. Having a daughter is a gift and yet a struggle in ways that having a son is not. Oh, I worry about all of them. I worry about how they will grow into the people they can be. But I worry a bit more about her. Mostly because I know what it feels like to be a girl in this world and so I worry a bit differently about her than my boys. But worry is not enough. So I have spent my entire parenting life trying to teach all my children to love themselves and to love others; to see their own gifts and to see other’s gifts as well; to be whole and happy, and made stronger by the challenges they face. But still I worry. Because as much as I love my dear children, and as many times as I have told them they are wonderful, I am like a broken bird with wings taped back together. How can I show them how to fly when I can barely leave the ground myself?