What Kind of Daughter

Okay, bear with me on this one…we’re going to make a wide circle here.

When I sired (such an awesome word) a boy, I was ready. It went like this:

Wife: [sound like enraged she-elephant passing a kidney stone the size of a she-elephant].

Doctor: “It’s a boy!”

Me: “Yay! A boy! Hey, I’m a boy! I’M READY!”

When I sired the second male, again, I was ready. That one went like this:

Wife: [sound which made first delivery look like result of Very Successful Stool Softener] [meaning people on the eastern seaboard heard her scream.]

Doctor: “It’s another boy!”

Me: “Yay! Another boy! Hey, I’m a boy! I’M READY!”

When Wife delivered the third child, a girl, I was ready. And by ‘I was ready’ I mean I was not at all ready. Nevertheless, that one went like this:

Wife [no sound at all this time because she had the Biggest Epidural In History, rendering her the Bionic Uterus]

Doctor: “It’s a girl!”

Me: “Yay! Another bo— Dude…wait, what?”

Okay, actually I didn’t say that at all. I just watched Cute Redhead cry because she always wanted a baby girl and now she (we) had a baby girl. So…she cried, and I cried. We all cried. Even baby girl (code name: Charlie) cried. In fact, she cried the most. She cried the most because she realized our gene pool had no lifeguard, dumping her right in the middle of two adults who had no idea how to change a little baby girl diaper.

Okay, that’s only half true. Miss Wife certainly knew how to change a little baby girl diaper. Because she’d lived her whole life with little baby girl dolls that did little baby girl doll things like cry. And leak. Even better than that, she knew exactly what to do with the postage stamp they tried passing off as a diaper for Little Baby Girl.

Now, this wasn’t my first rodeo. I’d already changed eight billion diapers thanks to Alpha Male and Beta Male. I’d even been hosed down on in the dark in the middle of the night. Which is not enjoyable. At all (another story for another time). And changing a diaper on a boy is not the most challenging thing in the world. I mean, this is Plumbing and Fixtures I just get, right? Right. And that goes like this:

Infant Boy: [not at all fragrant]

Me: “Ew.”

And then, because I’m One Dad To Rule Them All, I change the diaper, the carburetor, the world, blee, da-blah, yada-yada-yada, one hand tied behind my back, right? Right.

Okay. Now.

About three weeks after the Princess of Light and Splendor arrives on the scene (I am so not making this up), Cute Redhead decided it was high time I pushed myself to the outer limits. And that went like this:

Wife: “Seriously, are you ever going to change your daughter’s diaper?”

Me: [thinking if I don't move a muscle, she won't see me] [standing right in front of her] “Um. No. But-thanks-for-asking, that-was-sweet-bye!”

Wife: “Why not?”

Me: “Because. I don’t know how.”

Wife: [conveying in one very slightly raised eyebrow and indicating, by the child's existance, that I'd somehow puzzled out enough of the mystery] “Nice try.”

And then she handed me a very teeny, very tiny, very soiled infant baby girl. And a postage stamp. And then she watched me as I walked back to the nursery where all the diaper-changing accoutrement resided. And then that went like this:

Infant Girl: [to herself] “This loser has no idea what he’s doing. That stork could’ve pushed me through a car wash and I’d be better off.”

[passing of way too much time]

Me: “Wait! A! Second!”

Wife: “…what?”

Me: “Are you telling me you all are completely [not writing the word] front-to-back?!”

Then Wife came into the nursery where I had just Learned Something I Have To Admit I didn’t Know. I am not kidding.

I said I ain’t kidding.

I said I taint kidding.

(With me? A’ight.)

Okay, flash forward about four years. By now I’m a pro. I can change any diaper…little boy, little girl—I’m on it. I’ve walked the halls with this girl who cried all night long. I’ve sat at the dinner table begging BEGGING her to eat her one molecule of chicken. I’ve navigated the shark-infested waters of little girl emotions and little girl attitude and litt—by the way…did you know that when little girls are born THEY. COME. OUT. OF. THE. BOX. WITH. EVERY. SINGLE. EGG. THEY. WILL. EVER. (this so doesn’t seem like the right word but I’m going with it) LAY?!

EVERY EGG THEY WILL EVER LAY.

That brief tremor you just felt? That was a collective shudder from every male on the planet who just read that line.

EVERY EGG?! Hell, boys don’t even come out with every brain cell.

So, anyway…there I am one day coming into the the master bedroom for something and happen to glance over toward the bathroom to see my four-year-old thirty-four-year old daughter.

Preening.

And…well…it sort of made me take pause and survey the situation a little bit closer because she seemed to be fully aware of what she was doing. Fully aware of her four-year-old shot at wooing the little four-year-old boys. At seductively tilting her shoulder this way. Then that. At brushing her four-year-old hair back like she’d been in front of the camera all her life. At elegantly presenting all her tiny little womanly virtues.

While wearing her mother’s bra.

Okay, here’s the scary part: she didn’t once look in my direction. Not once.

She didn’t glance, nod, acknowledge, regard or anything like that to let on that she was aware I was even in the room. Or so I thought. And there I stood, sort of marveling quaintly at how cute, teeny, tiny little girls are just cute, and teeny, and tiny and Oh Man Do I Wish I Had A Camera Because This Is THE BEST Stuff To Laugh About At The Rehearsal Dinner And—

And then she sighs.  And, still not looking at me, and says, “…daddy…I will have [not writing this word either] someday.” She stood there, hands on her little hips, completely resigned to the inevitable development, almost forlorn. Just like I’ve seen Cute Redhead stand in the same exact spot and resign herself to other inevitables. Also forlorn.

Okay [the word I'm not writing]: it’s not a bad word. Not by a long shot. It’s one of the cute words for [the word I'm not writing]. And before you waste any time thinking I am one of those lame, delicate guys who just can’t bring himself to say [that word], trust me, no. It’s not that at all.

It’s that this was my baby girl. And she was four. And she was wearing her mother’s bra. And she was PREENING. And I’m just not sure I want to start down that road a good ten years (I’m praying) ahead of schedule. And why was I so wrapped around the axle on this one? Well, for starters, let me ask you other dads: Any of you other ever catch your son putting on your boxers and standing in front of th—yeah, no.

What’s more, SHE. WAS. FOUR.

So what kind of daughter stays up all night, won’t eat meat, and refuses to wear a bra? That sounds like some strung out hippie-waif the sixties lost track of somewhere up near San Francisco. And it works if you’re talking about a newborn baby girl—what a hilarious birth announcemnt that’d be! Ha ha! I kill me! Little Baby Newborn Girls don’t wear bras, you big silly! Yeah, well, neither do four year old ones.

I am so not ready.