I’ll never forget hearing the thump, thump, thump of a heartbeat as the nurse traced my wife’s protruding belly with a wand.
We watched nervously on the monitor as she pointed out our baby’s head, and nose, and arms and legs and fingers and toes and . . . that was it.
Nothing else, doc? You sure that leg there isn’t some other appendage?
Nope. It’s a girl, she said.
My wife’s anxious eyes welled with tears. Mine did, too. But for entirely different reasons.
What on earth, I wondered, am I gonna do with a little girl?
Like most guys, I had secretly wished for a boy. I wanted a son who I could mold into a good man, to teach how to treat young ladies properly and to fight for what’s right and to love his mother and his country.
I wanted a son to play ball with.
I have no idea why. It’s not like I could have taught him how to throw a knuckleball. Or a split-finger sinker, if there is such a thing. The best I could have done was to teach him how to not throw like a girl.
Now I just have to teach our two daughters not to throw like girls. And while it’s a bit harder, it’s the least of my worries. In 30 years, they’ll be dating!
Not every guy wants to be a dad, as evidenced by the thousands of men who bolt before that first sonogram, much less the first diaper is ever changed. On some other day, I might argue that’s one of the reasons this country is hurting so bad. But not today.
I know this is where we usually talk politics, but let’s take a break. Today is Father’s Day — a day to celebrate dads and, for me, the children who change our worlds in such monumental ways.
I always wanted to be a Ward Cleaver-type dad, wise and empathic yet firm, with a dash of Mike Brady, who was understanding yet cool in his high-waisted, bell-bottomed trousers. And, if I had to, I was ready to lay it all on the line like Heathcliff Huxtable, who once told his son: “I brought you into the world, and I can take you out.”
I wanted to pass on my own father’s strong beliefs and his mantra of “a job worth doing is a job worth doing right,” and to instill in my children the strong work ethic of my grandfathers.
What I never expected was how much I would learn from my children. I never expected to be a student, too. And five years after that first ultrasound, when God blessed us with the thump, thump, thumping of another young girl’s heart, I never knew how fulfilling it would be to be father of two girls and no boys.
My girls keep me sane in a world turned upside-down. They force me to turn off the BlackBerry long enough to gaze at the mama robin tending to her nest under our deck. Our soon-to-be 3-year-old reminded her jaded journalist father during a walk this spring that even the flowers that “don’t stink” are something to behold.
I’ve learned simple things, like how a good blanket and a nap can make all the difference in the world. And that if you’re in a park without a port-a-potty and your little one has a blowout and mom isn’t there and you don’t have a change of clothing, well, you learn to be resourceful.
I’ve learned to accept that Hannah Montana might accidentally blare from my cellphone while in a business meeting. I’ve come to accept that, sometimes, my toenails need to be painted, too.
And that patience isn’t a virtue but a near impossibility in a house with two young girls.
I’ve also learned that to truly enjoy a roller coaster ride, you have to gut out the lows in order to have your breath taken away during the highs. And that it’s OK, if during a trip with buddies to Las Vegas, you notice while poolside that your toenails still have a little pink, sparkly polish on them.
It’s more than OK. I wouldn’t change it for the world.
E-mail editorial page editor Dan Haley at dhaley@denverpost.com.
