I was recently posed the question: What is your dream? Wow – I had to really think about that.

When I was a kid, I dreamt of all kinds of things. A new idea of what to do, or be, or create popped into my head every other minute and usually had something to do with horses, unicorns, castles, or anything sparkly – the Bedazzler had nothing on me. But the things we dream of as children are often so fanciful that we abandon them in our rush to grow up, lest we be viewed as a child a moment longer than we find comfortable. Too often, most of us (myself included) slog about, bogged down in our daily trials and find it hard to even remember what dreams captivated us so very long ago. But the lucky among us hold tight to those dreams, even if only to smile at the memory of them. When we get older, our dreams are usually very different and much more serious because we are busy with the oh-so-serious business of being an adult.

For a long time in my grown-up life, besides the obvious of having a home, a good job, and a happy marriage, I had the grown-up dream of having a daughter. This dream was fully developed, complete with bouncing brown curls, ruffle tights, and a name — Nora. When life brought me two sons I was confronted with having to give up that dream. I could never have known that the loss of one dream was necessary to bring me another — these two very different but equally delicious boys — who bring me more pure joy than I could have ever imagined.

When I wrote about boxing up the dream of having a little girl, the words found me. They poured out as if I had turned on some imaginary tap in my mind, emotions overflowing as my fingers danced over the keyboard and struggled to keep up. I haven’t written anything since then, telling myself that it’s because life is just too hectic, and when things slow down I’ll write about the boys. But perhaps closer to the truth is that when I think about writing about these two little gifts that life gave me, I’m afraid I won’t find the words, and they won’t find me. After all, Nora Who Wasn’t won’t read those words, but if I write about my boys, I will have a real live audience whose review could crush me in a second.

So beyond the dreams for stuff and things, for futures and possibilities, I dream of words. Words that are right. Words that tell the story in my heart. Words that will erase the memories of bad days/bad moods/times I had to raise my voice/ timeouts/disappointing dinners… Words so brilliant and weighty that someday when my little boys are men, they will read them and know what a gift it is to be their mother.

These words I seek will somehow find a way to jump off the page, reach inside them, and fill their bodies with the things I have felt. One paragraph will brim their eyes with tears and make their hearts beat wildly like mine did the first time I held them, saw them smile, and heard a first word. The next will make them laugh out loud like I did when they insisted on dancing naked or said something profoundly hysterical, sometimes at the same time. The words will create in them the same feelings of otherworldly pride and delight that make it a moral imperative for me to tell both friends and random strangers about the incredibly funny/smart/wild/sweet thing they did (um, yes, even if I’ve told them the story before). They will warm them with the gratitude I feel when my boys remind me of my childhood dreams as we explore their imaginations. And finally, the words will pump their adrenaline into that crazy, feral, mother-bear place that makes this usually fairly docile lady not hesitate to say ’step off b*tch’ to anyone even thinking of threatening my cubs.

So, my dream? It is to one day find these magical, elusive words that have the power to transform my experiences as a mother into a captivating love note to my boys. Really, it will be a thank-you note, for the privilege of having been not just a Mommy, but their Mommy. And when I do finally write it, I’m going to put it in a Bedazzled frame and hang in on their fridge, just like all of the heartfelt treasures that have been hung on mine.

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.