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.

Boys vs. Girls: The Wardrobe Edition

Zach is a kid—a male, mainly—after my own heart. Were it up to him, he'd never go clothes shopping, even if it meant wearing the same old garments until they were down to their last few threads and a sickly grayish-tan from being washed a million times. Problem is, he's still growing, rapidly, so they're often all that and breath-stealing tight to boot. And because of this, he occasionally needs to get new clothing.

Still, when the time comes, he shops the way I do: stake out a store, hit the racks and shelves in quick succession, grab whatever looks remotely appealing, try them on, dart for the register, pay, and then go. Mission accomplished, and who cares if you're not the end-all be-all of fashion plates? You've got clothes, and you're good to go.

If only it were so easy with Zoë. And if only pigs could sprout wings and fly.

When Zoë needs clothes—or even when she doesn't, since she often tires of what's in her drawers and decides she has "nothing to wear"—shopping for her is a job best reserved for someone with the fortune of a Rockefeller, the patience of a monk, and the fashion sense of Stacy London or Clinton Kelly. Unfortunately, I'm none of the above. And since Kelly often promises to go shopping with Zoë but rarely follows through for lack of time, patience, energy, or a combination of the three, the duty typically falls on my shoulders. And to put it simply, I'm not worthy.

Were we still living in the Bay Area, the task would be difficult enough. But it'd be like panning for gold: visit a million stores, and you're bound to strike it rich now and then. But we live in Redding. And I can count the number of local stores where we effectively can shop for Zoë on...oh, about one hand. Add in that she's built athletically—not plump, not fat, but certainly not stick-thin, either—and the difficulty of the endeavor is complicated exponentially. Because, in case you've not shopped girls' clothes recently, everything is low-rise, slim-cut, and meant to fit the 21st-century version of Twiggy.

For a time, I dragged Zoë around, forcing her to try things on. This strategy was far from perfect for a variety of reasons:

• Too often, Zoë would, much like her mother, claim nothing fit right


• Too often, what Zoë liked most did not, by my estimation, fit


• Too often, what Zoë liked most was what I could not or did not want to afford


• And too often, what we thought fit perfectly at the store oddly did not fit at home

Fortunately, there was Plan B, which involved me shopping alone and throwing everything that a) I though Zoë might like and b) I was willing to buy into a cart. This involved buying things in various sizes, since, as the parent of any girl knows, no two brands cut identical sizes the same. The fatal flaw in this setup was that after buying several times over what I actually needed to clothe my daughter, I'd end up with many, many items needing to be returned—a monstrous and somewhat embarrassing job. And far too often, it never got done, resulting in boxes of even more hand-me-downs (and hope-they-fits) for Zienna.

Lately, I've resorted to Plan C: avoidance. And as a result, poor Zoë has ended up with an abundance of out-of-season, ill-fitting, threadbare clothes. Were she not a clothes horse, this might not be a problem. But since she is, it's been a disaster.

Given my struggles to clothe my daughter, is it any wonder I so value my son's flexibility? And perhaps the greatest beauty of his situation is that even as he begins to pay attention to his attire—fueled in part by his growing awareness of the opposite sex—he's still as easy as ever to shop with and for. That fact was proven to the Nth degree yesterday when we needed, with less than an hour on our hands, to buy clothes for his school's "Dress For Business" day. We hit one store, and in less than an hour, including trying things on and shopping clearance racks, we had him in and out the door. Witness the photo for evidence of what he chose to wear—and couldn't stop raving about.

Compare that to several hundred dollars' worth of clothes I bought last week for Zoë's summer wardrobe, and there's really nothing to talk about. What she liked didn't fit, and what we liked, she didn't. The majority of it is bagged up, ready to be returned, hopefully.

I'm doing my best not to take sides. But in this particular battle, it's clearly Boys-1, Girls-0. Even if my boy's happy to be a "wear what's there" slob like me.