I used to conjure up images of her.

Bouncing mahogany curls. Eyes like her papa – a deep rich brown that twinkled just before she faded from view, never quite letting me glimpse the whole of her.

I imagined rosy, dimpled cheeks, a tiny tinkling laugh, and chubby little legs that we would somehow sausage into tights – the impossibly sweet ones with the ruffled bottom that no baby needs but every mommy wants.

Like the wisp of reverie she flitted in and out of my days, prompting an accumulation of goods year after year. A dress, outfit, cute little shoes. Enough fabric and Daisy Kingdom patterns to clothe an entire kindergarten class. These treasures I lovingly stored away for Someday. They became the warp & weft of the intricate dream I wove. They allowed the idea of My Daughter to have some tangibility, and let Someday feel not so very far away.

Every now and again I would pull the box out of the closet, unfolding and refolding the items as I got lost in the idea of Her. Occasionally I added to the box, and occasionally I thought I probably shouldn’t spend money on a wish. But I told myself that if I didn’t have a girl, I’d have lots of presents for friends and family. How very practical.

The first boy came – my love Cameron, the scientist. Three and a half thrilling years later, the doctor said we were likely having a girl. Seventy percent chance, said he. Telling ourselves to be cautious, as we wouldn’t have confirmation for five more weeks, we nevertheless dared to believe the doctor was right. The box came out again, clothing unfolded and refolded, and as the idea of Her grew larger, so did the box. Now the wish had a name – Nora.

The five weeks passed with aching slowness as pink purchases were made – sometimes warily, sometimes giddily. A small pink sweater began to grow on my knitting needles, a tiny wish in each stitch. Every day of those five weeks I woke up wondering why I hadn’t dreamt of her that night. All I got were fleeting images during the day – the same as I had for years; and although I was nearly convinced she was finally real, there was always a seed of doubt. Always a little tug that said no, this baby is a boy. The more tugs I got, the faster I knitted, as though if I knitted the sweater fast enough it would guarantee that I would have a little girl to wear it. A wooly If you build it, she will come.

There was no doubt on the next sonogram that this baby was a boy. Even we could tell, but that’s a story for another time… As soon as the sonographer said it, the tug said I told you so. It didn’t come as a shock because part of me had known all along. Growing in my belly was boy number two – sweet little Rowan. And he was a bit too little, which gave us more to worry about than the dream of the Someday girl slipping away.

As we worried and waited and worried and waited, Rowan was all that mattered, and there was no room in the day to ruminate about anything else. I already loved this boy, and nothing was more important than his safe arrival.

During those last few pregnant months, through bed rest, a dramatic delivery, and the first sleepless weeks of Rowan’s life, that wisp of a dream disappeared, quietly tucked away in some forgotten corner in my mind. Six months have passed and allowed us to discover a charming, albeit demanding, loveable boy whose smile lights up the room, who delights his big brother no end and who thoroughly enjoys the smorgasbord of his fingers.

Only just recently did she whisper to me again. While reorganizing closets and shuffling the piles of boy clothes – those already outgrown and those yet to be grown into – I spied the box. I sat on the floor and brought everything out, unfolding and refolding the clothes as tears blurred my vision and I realized that there would never be a Nora to wear them. Before when I touched them they always held the hope of a dream, but now they were reminders of my unrequited yearning. I considered my plan that if I never had a girl, I at least had great gifts to give. At the time that had sounded perfectly reasonable. Never did I imagine that giving them away would mean giving Her away.

Our days now are filled with tractors, trucks, cranes and trains, insects of all kinds and a sandbox whose sand is slowly sneaking inside by hitching a ride in pockets and cuffs. It’s often a raucous house, full of laughter and no end of drama. Our boys mean the world to us and we can’t imagine our lives without them. But there will be no more babies for us. And although I like to say our family is complete, I know that from time to time I’ll glimpse the bounce of a curl and feel a zing in my heart where forever will live the incomplete memories of Nora Who Wasn’t.