No one tells you that baby girls will one day turn 12. And that for the next five years, they will love and hate you in equal measure. They will also weep as much over a visit to the hairdresser as when a pet dies. They will have the ability to torment you with the ferocity of an axe murderer, before falling into your arms as if they were once again just a little girl who wants nothing more than to watch Frozen with her dad.
That’s not strictly true. I was warned. Though in my defence, it was already too late.
“Mazaltov!” said my friend, who called to congratulate me on the birth of our daughter 18 years ago. “Enjoy the early years!” A statement I didn’t quite understand, tried to ignore, but which nagged at me until I understood it.
After four sons, we were a little amazed when my wife gave birth to a member of the female species.
And very excited.
Which is why I didn’t pay as much attention to the throwaway warning as I should have.
The early years were, indeed, a joy. She slept, she ate, she smiled, and she happily wore pretty dresses. The only challenge was ensuring that she survived her older brothers, who weren’t averse to using her as a human shield when the opportunity arose. Or who would make her repeat after them that “girls can’t drive”.
And then, one day, the sweet princess went into her girly room and disappeared. What emerged was someone who looked similar, sounded the same, but who had been captured by a body snatcher so fierce and so unpredictable, that for once, her brothers took cover. Around her there were no sudden movements, there was no reference to anything that might anger, and they learned very quickly how to evacuate a room at the first sign of danger.
Parents of teenage daughters know that it’s wise to start a rolling tehilim group a day ahead of a hairdresser visit. They come to know the Superbalist delivery guy as well as they know their other children. They understand the dangers of a visit to Dis-Chem, and that they’ll need to spend hours decoding what it means to be blue ticked on a WhatsApp message.
They will also know love, devotion, and care. They will know what it is to have your children worry about you, and to be reprimanded by your daughter for being out late when she thought “you were dead!” It’s quite possible that you could well be dead for three to four months before any of your sons noticed. And then, they would only notice because the leftover lamb curry was finished.
Not only did our daughter, Abby, finish school this month, but this week, she also turned 18. In spite of matric finals and all the stress of the year, Abby seems to be back. She’s not asking to watch Frozen, but her brothers are able to move freely around her without the terrified hypervigilance they displayed over the past few years.
There were many times during the past teenage years when a glass of wine (or bottle) seemed to be the only way to cope. Now, when we raise a glass, it’s to toast her future and in gratitude for having been blessed with a daughter. Even beyond the early years.
