That's what little girls are made of?

Sugar, spice, everything nice? Bones, blood, water? A closet full of shoes, purse stuffed with lip gloss, pink feathered boas over a purple sequin dress? What really makes a little girl, well, a little girl (aside from the obvious...)
This is the question I've been asking myself since I saw her sweet little face for the first time yesterday, and got a 100% guarantee from the ultrasound tech that there really is a tiny girl camping out in my belly.
At first glance, she looked sweet and precious, just like she should. But after 20 minutes of trying to poke and prod her into waking up for the camera, it was clear that this little angel is stubborn (or just a very heavy sleeper). The tech joked that "she must have been up partying all night" and I laughed nervously because indeed, I had awoke to her one-lady festivities at 1am, 3:30am and then again at 5am overnight. She wasn't kicking me exactly... it was more like a Cinco de Mayo fiesta, where every time she threw back a tequila shot, she felt the need to break into a conga line. She was excited, and I was excited that I could feel her moving around. With heavy eyes, I rolled out of bed at 8am and started to get ready for my ultrasound. Surely there would be some great photos -- she was a baby on the move!
Until I actually wanted her to move so that a measurement of her brain, and kidneys, and heart could happen. Then it was like, "Wake me up when you're ready to hit the clubs Mom. This is boring."
I almost felt apologetic, offering to come back at 11pm that night because "surely she would be waking back up." It was the one chance I would have before May to see what she was up to inside there and I KNEW she was doing a lot more than sleeping like a cherub all the time. The bags under my eyes proved it. But just as I was starting to get slightly disappointed in her inactivity, the ultrasound tech started to talk to me about her own son.
Heather (the tech) had been a very young mother when her son was born, and from the time she was four months pregnant until delivery, she was considered "high risk." It seemed that a heart defect and brain abnormality appeared on her son's ultrasound, and from that point on, she faced worry everyday for the rest of her pregnancy.
And the problems only grew worse after Blake was born. He had to undergo two open heart surgeries and removal of a tumor in his head by the time he turned three years old. Now, he was a healthy eight-year-old who had to eat a low-sodium diet and avoid contact sports -- but other than that, was perfectly healthy. But his road to normalcy was long, and frightening. Heather had been so impacted by how her ultrasound results had changed her life that she decided to make a career out of guiding people through the process -- whether the news was reassuring or unnerving.
Even though her story had a happy, triumphant ending, I couldn't help but feel beyond lucky that the results of my ultrasound were so different from hers. Sure, maybe my baby wasn't moving and grooving on command, and was keeping me up at night, but there was one word on her medical chart that made me thankful beyond my expectations: normal. No defects, no abnormalities, no obvious reasons to worry during the next four months. Just a sleeping baby who had worn herself out from playtime the night before.
So maybe the chart didn't say "extraordinary" or "fantastic" or some other equally technical term. She was peaceful. And beautiful. And normal. There would be time for her to amaze the world with her talent, and stun her mother with her simple kindness. But yesterday, it was what I took for granted to be run-of-the-mill, and even boring, that made her incredible.
And whether she ends up being made up of athleticism, or intelligence, or creativity, or romanticism -- all of the parts needed for her to chose those paths are in place. I realized that just being normal is a fearfully wonderful thing to be.