The advice people gave us when my husband and I announced that we were adding a little girl to our family was varied but had one consistent underlying message: It will be nothing like what you've been used to raising boys.

I'm fairly confident I just got my first taste of what's to come.

Rewind two weeks. Jaycee, who is 15 months old, suffered through a couple of days being absolutely miserable and inconsolable. She would scream at me to pick her up, “Maaa-ma! Maaa-ma!” (Remind me again why I was ever upset that she hadn't uttered my name up until recently?) Then she would squirm to get down like she was allergic to my flesh or something. Up and down. Down and up. Wailing at me as if I am the most unresponsive and inept mother in the world. This routine lasted for about 48 hours, and I ultimately made the decision to take her into the pediatrician's office.

I was in the mom minivan when I made the call, and the lady on the other end of the line could hear Jaycee screaming in the background. I don't think it was coincidence that she got me an appointment a mere 25 minutes after we talked. The drive into the office took about that long and Jaycee morphed into a clawing, scratching demon child. I was tossing cereal back at her trying to appease her like she was a monkey at the zoo but far more scary.

All that kept running through my mind was, “She has a double ear infection or strep throat or something else I should have caught before now. Why did I wait this long to get her in?”

When I finally pulled into the parking lot, I hurried to rescue her from her car seat and noticed that she had, in fact, scratched herself below one of her eyes in the thralls of her road rage. Her nails needed to be cut. Add that to my neglectful mom to-do list. My poor little girl. Feelings of guilt continued to build.

As I was cuddling her close, we passed by the window and she caught a glimpse of herself in the reflection. She perked up and smiled a devious little grin. And that's when I started to ponder…what is actually happening here? You can probably see where this is going. Not a single tear or whimper when the doctor examined her. No ear infections. Throat looked perfect. Teeth were the only possible culprit as she is cutting her final few.

I had to swallow my pride and thank the doctor for allowing me to freak out for no good reason. I passed by the check-in desk on the way out with my head held low knowing that motherly instinct couldn't have been more wrong this time. And I questioned (wasn't the first time and won't be the last) what better ways I could have spent the copay dollars I gave them.

On our drive home, I continued to feed the monkey a few french fries and she was happy as a peach. Something dawned on me that day. There should be a PMS Copay Clause that guarantees a full refund in the event your estrogen-filled offspring is just diagnosed as having a bad day. I am sure we can think of something for the boys, too (perhaps a Testosterone Tantrum Treaty?)

I guarantee more meltdowns in the future. Will be interesting to see who has more…me or my daughter.

Heidi Woodard is married with three children and works full-time.