Daddy’s Girls

When I was out in the land of dating, oh, so many years ago, I was blessed not to wander out in that wilderness long. Had I not met BFam, I have the feeling I would still be single right now. I don’t think I’m a hard person to love, I’m just particular in my likes and dislikes. These are my personal staples, mind you, not any attribute that would make up my potential suitor. (Although I’m particular there, too. Mama don’t take no mess.)

Coming from a household where the biological male counterpart couldn’t quite get his act together, I was still fortunate enough to see what type of man I wanted in my grandfather who more than stepped up to the challenge of being the male role model in my life. The most important quality he could have ever shown me was being there. Piano recital? There. Volleyball game? Yep, there, too. Sorority-sponsored cotillion? There, dancing, grinning and sweating bullets. My grandpa was, and still is, a hard act to follow.

When I met BFam, he was the oldest of the six children in his mixed families. Four sisters, two brothers. During our courting period, his sisters would visit us in the summer months while we both attended college. They are now either over twenty, or have children of their own, but this was ten years ago. I am an only child, so I never really had to take care of anyone but myself. I would tell him, “I can braid hair… but you expect me to braid all their heads? I mean, I love you, and all, but that’s asking a bit much.” To my surprise, he’d had the hair braiding, dressing, bathing, and anything else covered. And if someone was on their womanly time of the month? Big brother would run to the store for pads. It was strange and surreal to watch, especially the sanitary napkin buying. Granted, he bought mine if he had to. Not sure why I didn’t think he’d do it for all the women in his life.

While my family is small, none of us spawned boys which is why I prayed long and hard the good Lord would bless me with penis-packing children. After Mooter, I bet double or nothing on the next munchkin. God either has a great sense of humor or knows something I don’t because he gave me another screeching banshee sans wee-wee. I’m not sure why -- maybe it was the epidural -- but I apologized to BFam right after they pulled Booger out of my belly. Right there on the operating table. Now, ladies, I know. I had the kid. Carried it for nine months. WHY AM I APOLOGIZING?! I know, I know. Sounds crazy, right? Especially when BFam tells me, just as he did when I apologized those two-plus years ago, “When did I tell you I wanted a boy?” We didn’t have that conversation?

So here’s to the man with the two non-boys I gave him, that he loves until his teeth hurt; that is still being graded by the standards of my grandpa (even though he doesn’t know it) and passing; that would do whatever it took to make his girls happy. Even this: