It probably does not come as any surprise that when I was pregnant, people would ask me if I wanted a boy or a girl.

“It doesn’t matter,” I would say.

Confession? I never admitted this to anyone, not even myself, but secretly, deep down, I wanted a girl. I wanted to dress her up in cute clothes and braid her hair and take her shopping and out to lunch and to get her nails done.

I didn’t particularly like dressing up or shopping myself. And I never fussed over nails or make-up.  I just thought it would be fun to do for someone else.  I probably thought that I could sort of enjoy it vicariously without actually having to put on the uncomfortable clothes or worry about breaking a nail.

I got my wish.  Two girls.  We have been going out to lunch since they were big enough to eat.  The days of dressing them up have passed, but I got to enjoy years of choosing adorable clothes and shoes without a fight.  They no longer let me touch their hair, but I did get to do some French braids when they were little. I am fulfilled.

They are at the age now where I am expecting them to want to go shopping and get haircuts and mani/pedis.

Instead, they like to play in the dirt and have running races. And being the supportive mom that I am, of course, I’m always like, “OK, if that’s what you want, let’s do that.” While I secretly die a little inside because I just want to sip iced tea on the patio at that crepe place downtown.

They will go with me to the crepe restaurant, but just as often they choose Chick-fil-A. (Nothing against Chick-fil-A. I love those waffle fries myself.)

I did talk them into a mani/pedi once before an important event.  They hated it.  It tickled. It took too long. The polish started chipping off within a day.

One girl is forever cutting her nails too short and complaining of ingrown nails.  The other is forever complaining that her friends at school won’t race her because the girls are wearing heels and the boys won’t race a girl.

And I’m thinking, Who raised these kids?  How did they turn out like this? Why are we not watching “The Gilmore Girls” and having spa days?

And yet.  I trim my nails close. I was a Jiffy Lube technician in college. I played basketball at my own wedding. In my wedding gown. And dress shoes.

I do not own make-up, high heels, sunglasses, perfume, or nail polish. I have never actually seen an episode of “The Gilmore Girls.”  I once tried a tanning salon (this was in the early 90s when people did that sort of thing), but I left right away; I had panicked in the tanning bed because I could not stop thinking that it looked like a coffin.

But right now, I just want to go shopping. I want to buy them clothes and shoes and accessories and make-up and perfume and nail polish.

But they mostly just get dirty and sweaty. They play hard and have fun.

And then I have the Herculean task of trying to talk them into taking showers.

And I remember that they are kids, not dolls. Kids who take after me more than I could have imagined.