A daughter? Oh my, here we go

I’ve never been so terrified of St. Patrick’s Day.

March 17, 2012: My own personal day of reckoning and the first day of the rest of my life.

I have a son. I knew what could happen. Now, in a little over seven weeks, give or take a few days, I will come face to face with the consequences of my actions: my daughter.

My daughter. Yep, I get the chills every time. A girl. Oh lord, what have I done?

Not sure why I’m terrified. I certainly wasn’t with my son. But the thought of me having a hand in raising a girl has required a leap of faith.

I do know what part of it is. My wife and I were walking around the county fair a few years ago when a teenage girl with too many piercings and too little clothing walked by with a group of her friends.

“Right there,” I told my wife. “That’s why I’m scared of having a daughter.”

I will spend a significant portion of the rest of my life praying I never have to explain to my daughter why she can’t, and won’t, leave the house dressed like that.

I can literally feel my hair falling out.

And I can admit part of it is the prospect of a boy sniffing around my house. I know boys and what they want to do to girls, especially when both have raging hormones.

There goes some more hair.

And yes, I’m vain enough to admit part of it has to do with my ears. That’s right, my ears. They are huge. I can live with that and have for more than 40 years. Good grief, I hope my daughter doesn’t get to share in that experience.

Part of it may also be simple familiarity. I was a boy. I know boys and what they like to do. I spent countless years coaching little league, so I feel fairly confident in my ability to teach, motivate, discipline, and even inspire boys.

Girls on the other hand? Yeah, my communication and reasoning abilities with them rival that of your average houseplant. Just ask my wife.

I’ve also let my wife know under no certain terms can she ever die now before our daughter is well out of the house. I’m talking at least another 30 years.

Raising a boy by myself would be hard enough. But I would have no chance raising a girl. Zero. Zilch. My wife had to inform me that we couldn’t, in fact, simply reuse our son’s baby clothes.

If it were up to me, my daughter would be the most boyish-looking-girl in town. Ribbons? Stockings? Bonnets? Yeah right. I would have no clue. And I haven’t even mentioned things like dance classes, cheerleading, prom dresses, make-up, and, um, other unique aspects of girls I won’t elaborate on.

I’ve been told all the benefits. How little girls wrap their daddies around their fingers and pull at their heartstrings like no other.

However, I find myself thinking of my friend Charlie.

Charlie had two daughters and wanted to try for a son. He and his wife succeeded and she got pregnant again, except this time, it wasn’t one child on the way. Nor was it two.

It was triplets.

And yes, they were all girls.

So in one day, Charlie went from living with three women to six.

Then, his wife got pregnant again, somewhat unexpectedly. He counted his blessings it was only one girl that time, bringing the total to a six-pack of daughters.

Charlie spent a lot of time hanging out at my house when I was a single man. I think I’m about to learn why.

Today, Charlie is older and a little grayer as all the girls are out of the house, but he does have most of his hair.

Oddly enough, he also accumulated quite a gun collection along the way. What a strange coincidence.

Gregory Orear is the General Manager/Editor of the Red Oak Express. He can be contacted at publisher@redoakexpress.com