Thank Heaven for Little Boys...and Girls

A couple of weeks ago, I conceded to my brother Steve, the father of three boys and no girls, that yes, it's definitely easier to raise the former than the latter. I'd just written about how much easier I found it to shop for and clothe my son than my daughters. Steve's reaction to what he'd read, which reinforced feelings he'd already held, was so strong that he reacted by saying, "Oh, what the heck: man, I'm glad I don't have girls. No offense."

No offense was taken, especially since, once upon a time, I never envisioned myself fathering girls. Even after giving in to Kelly and agreeing to take on parenthood, I could only picture myself as a boy-dad. Fathering a boy would be effortless, I reasoned. Toss a ball around. Watch sports together. Share a laugh over bodily noises and expulsions that would upset Mom. Teach him about all the stuff that interested you growing up and, in many cases, still did, merely drawing on your own experiences. And through it all, you'd basically be getting a second childhood and another chance to play with toys you'd left behind, watch movies you never thought you'd see again, and have an excuse to buy video game systems and other things people might question if you were buying them for yourself.

But to father a girl? After decades of trying to figure the female gender out, I felt horribly ill-prepared to even try raising one of its subjects myself. What on earth would we talk about, I wondered. What would we do? Having precious little experience in dressing dolls or ballet dancing or cheerleading or other stuff that seems to interest girls, how could I possibly pass myself off as a competent authority on such things? I couldn't. Nor did I really want to, if it means concerning one's self with ruffles and flowers and baby animals and perfume and diaries and all of that girly-girl stuff. And of course, right about the time that I'd finally figured out how to parent a girl, she'd start turning into a woman, and the ramifications of that—adolescence, boys, increased drama, boys, awkward situations too frightening to imagine, and boys—were WAY too much for me to even consider. Better to stick with what I knew, I figured.

And then we had Zoë. And even when she was swaddled in a blanket and wearing the same color and variety of hospital-issue cap Zach had worn when he was born, the minute I held that sweet little baby—and more significantly, that sweet little baby GIRL—in my arms, I knew, despite the generic appearance on the outside, that my world had been changed. And I realized that as much as I adored my son, I was going to love his sister on an entirely different level. Thank heaven for little girls, indeed—and daddy's girls at that. No dad without one can really understand what I'm saying. But we girl-dads do.

When Kelly was pregnant for the third time, I was fully realizing the, um, challenges of raising a girl, courtesy of Zoë. And partly for that reason, partly because Zach was starting to grow up and pull ever so gradually away from me, and partly because I felt I'd missed out on much of Zach's early childhood by working too much and not being involved enough, I was really hoping Zienna would be a boy. Kelly was, too—as was Zach—and I felt in my heart of hearts that she would be. We even had a name for her: Zane.

But then of course, Kelly and I decided to do something we'd not done in her previous two pregnancies by having a 3-D ultrasound. By doing so, we learned "Zane" would need a new name—a feminine one. And though I was crushed at first, I was fully back in girl-daddy frame of mind a few weeks later when Zienna decided to come on out and make it official that Zach and I would forever be outnumbered—and that I'd have to deal with all those icky girl things that frightened me so not just once, but twice.

As Zienna approaches her third birthday, coming at the end of this month, and Zoë loses more and more of the tomboyishness of her youth and asks to wear nail polish and frilly undergarments, the dynamics of our family are noticeably changing. Suddenly, it really does feel like Zach and I are outnumbered. And with increasing frequency, we have to give in to the feminine majority when deciding what to do, what to watch, or what to listen to. For now, it's OK. But I fear the day when a teen-aged Zach starts going off and doing his own thing, leaving me in a setting of Girls-3, Boys-1. I'm far from a macho guy, but the prospect of non-stop chick flicks and mani-pedis and Miley Cyrus music is definitely intimidating, especially with little or no son-shared Simpsons, video games, or punk rock to break it up. But it's a future I'd better prepare for, I suppose.

Meanwhile, I'll enjoy girl-daddying for its merits, like the head-over-heels love I felt upon seeing Zienna's first portraits in far too long, shot earlier today. They say a picture is worth a thousand words, and if I haven't managed to explain to boy-daddies why I adore my girls, hopefully the pictures of Zienna will do what I could not.

Boy-dads, if that sweet face doesn't sway you, then we'll just have to agree to disagree.

Note: If you're interested, a gallery of 25 portraits from Zienna's three-year-old photo shoot can be viewed here.