She, was not supposed to exist. Ten years and nine months ago, my wife came home from the market and demanded we start remodeling our home. Granted she had been nagging me for six years previous, but by the tone of her voice, I knew she was no longer requesting. Still, something wasn’t quite right, although she had a “Do or Die” tone, she also had a sly smile and twinkle in her eye. My heart skipped a beat, I couldn’t have been happier, I was going to blessed with another perfect son.

I immediately began the remodeling of our home. We had to create a new bedroom for my boy. I envisioned navy blue with golden yellow, and football helmets from every pro team lining the shelves. I was preparing to tell my wife I would be naming my new son, Nicolas, when my wife again reminded me he could be a she.

I told my wife “You’re right, mi amor, the baby is probably a girl with blonde hair and blue eyes just like you.” Little did my wife know, it really wasn’t possible for multiple reasons. First, look at my two older boys. They are huge and strong as oxen, they are what I create. Second, as far as the blonde hair and blue eyes are concerned, my wife’s pale American recessive genes didn’t have a snowballs chance in hell against my dark, manly Latino genes, we’ve already proven that twice. Lastly, my wife had no idea, but I had been secretly praying non-stop, between genes and God, I felt I was covered.

When my wife was six months pregnant she had a sonogram, I remember sitting there anxiously, just as I had with my first two sons, waiting for the Dr. to point out my boys impressive manhood on the black and gray monitor, but he didn’t. He turned to me and said “Es una muñequita“, a girl.

The next three months went by slowly, I was in a trance. I still had hopes the sonogram was wrong. I am ashamed to admit it now, but I honestly did not want the girl. Period. My wife was busy buying pink and tossing me names. She insisted the girls name had to be perfect. It must present an aged wisdom, femininity, and strength. Why the hell would we need strength for a girl, absolutely ridiculous. I felt disgusted and betrayed. The girl was not even here and already I didn’t like her.

On August 12, 1998 my wife awoke in painful tears, begging me to get her to the hospital, it’s time. Had it not been the middle of the night and the world sleeping softly, I would have called someone, anyone, to take my wife for me. I didn’t even want to be there, I’d just stay home and take care of my boys.
The labor was long and painful, eventually the Doctor said a cesarean would be required, and to the operating room we went. Shortly after, a faint cry was heard, the girl had been born. The Doctor whisked her to the next table, proudly proclaimed the girl weighed 6 pounds even. Six pounds, how truely pathetic and weak. My boys were strong and between 8 1/2 and 10 pounds each. Then it happened.

While Dr. Cortinas finished tending to my wife, a nurse brought the girl to me and placed her gentley in my arms. She was tiny and pink, her hands were the size of 5 peso coins and her hair was a curley golden blonde. As I looked her over, we locked eyes and the girl grabbed my finger, she was incredibly strong. I was instantly overcome by emotion. My daughter, Isabela, was here and she was mine, all mine.

Isa is my girl, just the sight of her fills me with happiness and pride. She isn’t a normal girl. She is strong, tough, and quick witted, just like my boys, except she is in a smaller, much prettier package. She likes to wrestle, play basketball, and ride motorcycles and horses. She is perfectly content to spend the day climbing trees and fishing for craw daddy in the creek. She has an old soul and is wise beyond her years. She is kind, studious, loving, and compassionate.

Isabela inherited a great deal from her Mother. She is driven, determined, and sharp. They both love to watch television programs of medical gore and sob together while watching animal rescues. Isa has also inherited my wife’s intolerance to any type of injustice.

When Isa was seven years old, after mass, she went looking for Father Beto. She was excited as she told him that she too, had decided to join the seminary and become a Priest. She really wasn’t asking permission, she just wanted to know at what age she could start. Father Beto, lovingly wrapped his arm around my daughter and told her: she can’t. I should have stopped it, the undeniable signs were all there. I knew these tempestuous warnings, they were exactly the same as her Mother’s when injustice was in the air, specifically the ugly, sexist type.

Isa squared off, her eyes squinted, and her left nostril flared, within ten minutes she had explained why it is wrong that girls can’t be priest and included an over two dozen reason rebuttal on why girls might even make better priest than boys. Father Beto was left wide eyed and speechless and I was left bursting with pride. In ten minutes my seven year old, three foot tall, blonde hair, blue eyed Mexican daughter had single handedly taken down the town priest. Not bad for a girl. Next in line..The World.

Tomarrow, August 13, 2008 at 9:53 p.m., Isa will turn ten years old. When it comes to this girl, I still hate birthdays. Almost ten years ago to this day I would have paid money to keep the beast of a girl within her Mother’s bloated womb for eternity. Now I longingly hold on to every “I love you, Papi” and desperately search for a way to keep my girl from growing and one day leaving me.

TE QUIERO ISA.