For Dads, Daughters Are Different

For dads, daughters are different.

When a son is born, we hold him up for all the world to see.

When a daughter is born, we hold her close to protect her from all the world can do.

We watch a son, but we behold a daughter.

For dads, daughters are different.

We cheer at a son’s first steps, because, even then, when he is so little, we picture him rounding third, and heading for home.

We choke at a daughter’s first steps, because, even then, when she is so little, we picture her walking down the aisle, and leaving home.

Sons may make us laugh, but daughters make us smile.

For dads, daughters are different.

When our son skins a knee, we toss him a Band-Aid, and tell him to walk it off.

When our daughter stubs a toe, we pack her foot in ice, and rush her to the emergency room.

When a son asks us to play catch, we feel like young boys, again.

When a daughter asks us to play dolls, we feel like grown men, perhaps for the first time in our lives.

Seeing a son wearing a tie for the first time makes us chuckle.

Seeing a daughter wearing makeup for the first time makes us whimper.

When peach fuzz breaks out on a son’s chin, we rush out with great 

pride to buy them a razor.

The first time anything related to “that stuff” happens to a daughter, we both scream in abject terror for Mommy.

For dads, daughters are different.

If someone mentions how handsome a son is becoming, we give ourselves a sideways glance in the mirror, and suck in our tummies.

When someone reminds us how beautiful a daughter has become, we give her a sideways glance, and clench our fists.

We tell our sons, “Don’t start a fight, but if the other guy starts one, you damn well finish it.”

We tell our daughters, “If he lays a hand on you, I’ll break every damn bone in his body.”

For dads, daughters are different.

A son backing the car down the driveway, alone, for the first time instills yearning in our heart, because we remember what it was like to be a seventeen-year-old kid, alone, behind the wheel, for the first time.

A daughter backing the car down the driveway, alone, for the first time instills churning in our gut, because we cannot forget what it was like to be a seventeen-year-old kid, alone, behind the wheel, for the first time.

For dads, daughters are different.

A son’s graduation is a relief. We have given him our best, and now he is on his own.

A daughter’s graduation is a reflection. She has given us her best, and now we are on our own.

Sons may make us proud, but daughters humble us.

For dads, daughters are different.

We see, in our sons, the promise of glories we once dreamed of 

achieving ourselves.

In our daughters, we see glorious proof that the promise of life far exceeds even our wildest dreams.