A daughter is just the right change of pace

My mom is pretty tough. Always has been. She was quick with a kind word, always tried to look at the positive side of a situation, prone to forgiveness and many other wonderful traits.

But because of a hard life growing up in poverty and working hard for everything she had, she wasn’t prone to being overly emotional. She worked hard, helped out in the garage or outside and could drive anything on wheels. Growing up, I never thought much of it. I figured that’s just how all women were. I had mainly brothers and saw the world through male eyes. Maybe that’s why I fell so hard for my wife, Glenny.

Glenny is stunningly beautiful and has the pageant trophies to prove it. Like my mother, she is a very positive person, perpetually pleasant and makes friends instantly. She’s also a very good cook (when I’m asked how long we’ve been together, I usually respond, “Oh, about 60 pounds ago.”) But, like my mother, she’s not a woman I would describe as “girly.”

I began to discover this when we were dating. We both worked at Puget Sound Naval Shipyard. I built scaffolding and she was an inside machinist. She spent her days making new parts for U.S. Navy ships on lathes and even won an award for designing a new tool. I returned home one day after work to find that she had used my tools to piece an oak display case back together that I had broken during a move. I was impressed! Since then, I have watched her build furniture, singlehandedly repaint a house, help coach our sons with sports, help me work on cars, etc. Heck, when I was ill last year she put a new thermostat in our big GMC dually by herself.

My point? I’m used to women who are tough, and perhaps even a bit of a tomboy.

This was never a problem. Maybe I just got lucky, or maybe I’ve just been drawn to strong women my whole life and never bothered to notice that some were a bit more … dainty … than others.

Although we now have six children, there was a time when we just had the four older boys. Life was good. I would come home and help them kick around the soccer ball, work on their batting, wrestle with them, show them how to work on cars and all that “guy” stuff. Then Glenny became pregnant again. When the doctor came back after that ultrasound and asked, “Do you want to know the sex of your baby?” we stifled a yawn and said, “Sure.” After all, we were clearly boy factories and another one would just be more of the same.

So when he said, “It’s a girl,” I can distinctly recall the look we gave each other before simultaneously saying, “Are you sure? Can you look again?” What were we going to do with a girl? This was foreign territory! I didn’t know what to do with those! Didn’t God know we had a house full of Tonka trucks, Wiffle-ball bats, action figures (they’re NOT dolls, Dad) and the like? Our shelves and boxes of too-small clothes were full of blue Osh-Kosh, Levis, Bob the Builder and other garments for little men.

This wasn’t right. No fair.

Glenny admitted she had always wanted a girl but never thought she could have one. So she got over the shock quicker than I did. After a bit of thinking, I concluded that a girl would indeed be a fun change of pace. Besides, I told myself, she’s got those “strong girl/tomboy” genes. This won’t be all that different from raising boys.

So for the next nine months and even the first few years, I pictured my daughter’s future. In my prediction, I saw a girl growing up wearing denim with her hair in a ponytail outside helping Dad, learning from Mom how to machine parts. Yeah, this was gonna be cool!

But as she’s become older, I’ve learned that God has a sense of humor. In fact, I don’t think he liked me being so cocky and decided to teach me a lesson. Either that, or there’s some biological process I’ve never heard of wherein the mother can dump a few extra gallons of estrogen into a baby while it’s forming in the womb.

My daughter, Portia, has an extensive collection of princess-style dresses. And right-off-the-shelf isn’t good enough. They have to have extra beads, rhinestones or whatever all those glittery, sparkly things are all over them. Her room is pink and purple. I think she has the largest Barbie collection of all her friends.

Once only accustomed to going to wrestling and baseball practice, I’ve now had to learn to appreciate gymnastics, jazz tap and other similar activities. I still haven’t got the knack for making braids, but I was told just today that I need to learn.

My disciplinary measures have had to be tweaked. My sons have to believe that I’m only moments away from removing one or more of their limbs and chasing them around the house with them before I might see a twitch of nervousness in their eyes. However, it has been known to happen wherein I have walked into a room to spot my daughter spouting geysers from her eyes and been totally clueless as to why. That is, until my wife states that Portia “thinks I might be upset with her” for some reason or another. Holy moly.

Adjustments have been made in my daily schedule as well. When I see my boys getting ready for school in the morning we all share that glazed-eyed, it’s-too-dang-early look. We grunt at each other as we work around the kitchen and dining room. However, it has been made very clear that I cannot, under any circumstances, leave the house without a trip to my daughter’s bedroom to give her a hug and kiss goodbye in the morning or her day will start with tears.

At bedtime, I get a “night, Dad” from my sons. But I get an on-my-lap hug and several kisses from Portia with more “goodnights” than I can count. I also usually get told how very, very much she loves me and sometimes even an observation or two about how handsome or smart I am. It’s taken some getting used to, but I admit I kinda dig it. I think I’ll enjoy it while it lasts.

Ben Compton is a Palmer resident and publishes his column under the tagline “Compton’s Corner,” the same title used by his grandmother, Phyllis Compton, a longtime Frontiersman columnist.