One day over the summer, Belle came home exasperated with our son. In the span of five hours, she reported, he mooned some of his fellow summer campers and had a urinalysis done during his 4-year-old checkup because he wanted to pee in a cup. (In his defense, before dropping trou he did warn his friends, "I'm going to show you my butt.")
I tried my best to convey my disappointment in him but, honestly, I could not have been prouder and felt like my work parenting him was complete.
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| Not my daughter's ear. (At least not yet.) |
By contrast, I nearly choked on my cereal when my oldest daughter, during our breakfast together that morning, explained to me why she needed to wear a sports bra under a loose tank top, including lifting her 7-year-old arms to show me exactly where the undergarment provides coverage.
I thought about those moments recently after my daughter received a makeup set for Hanukkah and got her ears pierced within the span of 72 hours, during which my head was alternatively spinning and exploding.
"But Danny," you are probably thinking, "it sounds like you have a double standard for what's acceptable for your daughter and what's acceptable for your son."
First of all, you said "butt." Second, as my oldest grows up I'm finally understanding why "dad flummoxed by his daughter" is a TV sitcom staple. What garners an eye roll from Belle can leave me reeling.
There are a few factors at play. I'm much more familiar with the trajectory of boys. I grew up with a brother, and three of my four closest cousins - who also grew up in the same neighborhood - are guys. Four of us recently had a FaceTime not to catch up but to re-watch the 1997 Royal Rumble. There were few pleasantries exchanged, just lots of laughter watching men in spandex try to throw each other out of a wrestling ring. During the call, our one female cousin popped on, said hello, shook her head at us and then signed off. I felt bad we didn't try to talk with her but then the 30-second countdown clock popped up on the screen, and I turned my attention to wondering who would be coming to the ring next.
Then there is the fact our oldest is, by definition, our firstborn. She made me a father and changed my world for the better in ways I still don't think I fully understand. The oldest also is, by definition, your test child, the one you experiment with different parenting and child-rearing techniques. I don't think we scarred her for life (maybe the therapist she hires when she's older will tell me otherwise), so maybe letting her get her ears pierced is the least we could do as a thank you.
Ultimately, to acknowledge her getting older is to concede she's no longer my little girl, that she is becoming her own beautiful young woman inside and out. In that way, she has really helped me appreciate the time I spend with my youngest, who I have finally admitted to myself will not be a 2-year-old forever. I'm a pushover for all of my kids, but my youngest uses me like the frosted tips booth at an early-2000s boy band convention. At least once a day the following scene plays out:
Daughter: I want something.
Me [Doing 275 other things at once]: No, not right now.
Daughter: [Stares blankly at me, waiting for me to see the error of my ways.] Yes.
Me: [Stares back at her, knowing it's only a matter of time before all she wants from me is money or a ride somewhere]: OK.
The only silver lining to being the father of a daughter is that I'm not the mother. Some of my oldest daughter's responses to me are starting to include more than my recommended daily allowance of sass. But she and Belle have the occasional argument where my daughter will whine and say "Mom" as if it has 35 O's in it. When I go to Girl Scouts with her, I see the individual and group dynamics of a bunch of 7-year-olds and I'm terrified to fast forward to the teenage years.
But that is still a few years away. Right now, she lets Belle clean her ear piercings several times a day and is talking about what earrings she wants to wear when she can take her first ones out. She is growing up, and I'm excited to see what's next.
Incidentally, I have not heard much about her makeup set. It's my youngest, instead, who spends most nights before bed playing with the pretend makeup set in her room. I'll give you one guess who she practices putting lipstick on.
