I’ve always wanted a little girl. I knew what I’d name her, that she’d hold my hand wherever we went and love her Daddy with all of her heart. I’d have a sweet little girl who was as delicate as a flower for me to nurture and protect.
Four and a half years into parenthood later, I can tell you that all of that is true. Except the delicate part. My little girl is not the delicate flower I imagined. No, she’s got a mean stubborn streak that makes me smile when I think of her future husband who, at this very moment, is probably eating paste in pre-school, not knowing the horror that awaits his fate.
Even at four years old, my daughter baffles me. Take getting dressed, for instance. I could hand her brother a garbage bag and some duct tape and he’d put it one without complaint. I choose a dress that even hints at being “not pretty enough” and I have to go to battle with Swee’Pea the entire morning. Of course, she’ll scream, cry, kick, wail and flail until she’s red in the face but five minutes later she’s laughing and joking and making fart jokes with her brother.
And I’m left scratching my head. (Note to self: May have figured out why I’m going bald so quickly)
At every stage of my life, from as early as I can remember thinking about girls, I have been baffled. Does she like me or doesn’t she? Does she want me to open the door for her or not? Do I really tell her if her butt looks big in those jeans? (Learned the hard way on that one. Definitely not.) And finally, “What do you want to wear today, Swee’Pea?” is not that easy of a question.
Someday, I hope to have girls figured out. Perhaps by the time I turn 92. Or I won’t care by then which will be just fine too.
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