Holy, moly! I cannot believe I am a mother of four little girls. When I look around our home I see a lot of tutus, sparkles, ribbon, barrettes, plastic shoes that when worn make a clackety-clack sound on the wooden floors, and lots of pink. My girls are all unique in their personalities and each “girlie” in their own way.

Olivia is the queen bee of my princesses; she loves to wear anything with flounce in it so she can twirl. She loves her plastic jewelry always wearing all of it at once (it is her flair). Georgia is our athlete and at three years old can swing on the monkey bars like it is nobody’s business. She has almost mastered a one-handed cartwheel and every time I see her do it I think “I better hurry and enroll this kid in gymnastics.” She can keep up with the boys in the neighborhood all while wearing a skirt. Raquel, loves to copy her sisters and has recently rekindled my dislike for the popular kid-loving purple dinosaur, who shall not be named. Then there is Harper, sweet, small, and at five-weeks is just waking up to the world around her. She has finally re-reached her birth weight giving me much hope for spending less time indoors on the couch and more time out in the world with my family.

Last week my husband and I saw an episode of Modern Family that really got me thinking. Modern Family, for those of you who don’t know, is one of the funniest shows on television today. It happened to the episode where all three of the females in the Dunfy house were menstruating. It was hysterical. Brent just looked at me at one point during the show and said “oh, no”.

Thankfully, I am the only one capable at the moment of having a menstrual cycle, and although extremely irregular, I don’t think we have to worry about me syncing up with the other girls in the house for quite some time. But it got me wondering, as a mother of all girls, “Just what have we gotten ourselves into?”

Brent had always thought he would be putting together a Lego Millennium Falcon, instead he finds himself putting Barbie clothes on Barbies, putting together dollhouses, and reading stories about Fancy Nancy.

I have a lot of friends who have all boys. This past week had me thinking about them with a little bit of envy. I started to wonder what it is like in their homes. After all, in their homes they are the only princesses. I wondered, do their boys go through their closets and pull out their best heels and walk in them? Do their boys demand that they paint their nails on a regular basis? Is their less whining? Do their kids prefer their daddies? Is there more or less scrubbing of stains on laundry? Do they feel special or unique being the only female in the home?

I decided to ask my friends who have boys to tell me what it is really like, lest I idealize being the only princess too much. I too wondered if they truly felt special being the only one in the house.

What I learned is that there is a lot of talk of manly parts, trucks, dirt, superheros, pretend guns, running, wrestling, and all things boy. Whether or not it was what they had envisioned for their lives, each and every one of my friends have embraced being moms of boys and have just gone for it, running, sword fighting, and wrestling right along with their sons.

It has yet to be seen whether or not I’ll be hated or loved by my girls, whether I’ll find my clothes in their hampers, or whether we will be driving their dad crazy with fluctuations in our hormones. What I do know, is that like my friends, I too, wouldn’t trade my life as a mother of girls for anything in the world. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

The other night my husband and I reached for the saltshaker at the very same time. I backed my hand away but then he motioned to me to go ahead saying, “Please…, my bride” That little gesture and him referring to me as his “bride” all these years later made me feel so special. I realized that I may be in a house full of princesses but in this house, so it seems, I will always be queen.