Daughters

As the only son of an only son, I was supposed to have sons; it was my duty. I’m not sure how to make a duty out of something beyond my control, of course, but I was supposed to have sons. That was clear. As I envisioned my family, I was supposed to have big, strapping boys who I could teach how to play soccer, the ins and outs of the NFL, the artistic nature of the 1965 Mustang fastback, why the Air Coryell offense is superior to the West Coast offense, how the Dean Smith back door/box set works, and the glories of a perfectly executed 8 route by Michael Irvin. I was supposed to teach my sons the intricacies of a play-action pass and of the proper enjoyment of a throaty V-8 rumble. Having three sisters growing up, it was going to be great having sons and not being outnumbered for the first time in my entire life. When I was growing up, even my dogs were girls. Having sons would have evened my odds for once.

Yes, I thought I was supposed to have sons, but what I have been given is daughters. My daughters are beautiful, wonderful, intelligent, and precious. They are also a hot mess. They can find contraband with the efficiency of a blood hound. Leave snacks around the house, they will find them. They will eat them with glee. They will eat them even if you were saving them for a special occasion. In that case, they will eat them faster. They can turn perfectly good cabinets into places where they can disappear in impromptu games of hide-and-seek. They can make copious amounts of mischief, especially the youngest. How my 2-year-old has figured out the process of getting chocolate muffins down from on top of the refrigerator is one of the great mysteries of life.

My girls fill my life with love, laughter, and more drama than a three-night mini-series of The Young and the Restless. I end up saying, “settle down,” about as often as Carrie Underwood changes outfits. In exchange I end up getting big hugs and hearing “I love you, Daddy” nearly as frequently. I’ll take that trade every time.

My daughters are a delight and the joy of my life, but they are different from sons. Instead of teaching about soccer, I am learning about ballet. Instead of sons mesmerized by the NFL on a Sunday afternoon, I have to sneak in a game between episodes of My Little Pony: The Movie and Frozen II. “Girls don’t like football, Daddy.” I’ve not been able to persuade them of the folly of their ways. Even Molly’s enjoyment of college football does not seem to affect them. Every now and then I have to say, “No, I’m going to watch the game.” The girls, however, are uninterested and unimpressed.

My little girls are not really interested in my guitar either. They are more interested in painting their faces, and sometimes the walls, with their mom’s makeup. None of my girls show any interest in basketball, or golf, or dirt, or a chainsaw, or cars, or rock music, or an internal combustion engine either.

Now if any of them show interest in football, golf, dirt, a chainsaw, rock and roll, or soccer, I would be glad to teach. I believe, though, that a child’s interests are part of who they are. A child’s interests are to be nurtured, if possible. If one of my girls suddenly decides to put down her ballet slippers for soccer or softball cleats, I’m in. So far, that does not look to be on the horizon, though.

One of my girls does love dinosaurs, but she really kind of plays house with them. Her 120 plastic dinosaurs (honestly after her collection got past 100 of them, I just started estimating the actual number) are like a large family complete with names. They are not lords of destruction and ruin. There is a momma dinosaur and baby dinosaurs. Somehow, there is love and affection among them. They even snuggle at night. Now, this does not compute with me. When I was little, if I had 120 plastic dinosaurs, there would have been a dinosaur war complete with carnage and recrimination. The smaller, weaker dinosaurs would have been clobbered quickly, but only after they had eaten all of the toy soldiers. Yes, I know toy soldiers and dinosaurs are not from the same time frame, but have you ever seen a little boy play? They make no such distinctions. After the larger dinosaurs feasted on the remains of the soldiers and the smaller dinosaurs to feed their blood lust, they would turn on each other in a gigantic, gruesome battle. At the end, there would only be one survivor left with all of its appendages remaining intact, which is probably why I never had 120 plastic dinosaurs. No. Naming dinosaurs and having a caring momma dinosaur was never on my radar. Life with girls is just different; different in the best way.

Because of my daughters, my life is seldom quiet. There are squeals of glee. There is unrestrained laughter. There is screaming. There is lots of screaming. There are fights over stuffed animals and musical instruments, and no one has learned to share. Quiet space is not found in my house often. When it is quiet, I usually need to be dialing my insurance company to make a claim. There is a catastrophe being plotted somewhere. I suppose it is probably good that my hearing is suspect.

So, I’m outnumbered. I’m outnumbered by girls. I always have been. I always will be. My daughters are the great joy and delight of my life. So, while I was “supposed” to have sons, I will always think that my girls are the best gift, and I would change absolutely nothing. When I look at, or even think about one of them, I experience a deep joy. I am just grateful to God for them.