I See a Sad Dad And I Want To Paint Him Pink

Life is a challenge. God likes to challenge people. God really enjoys challenging me, which is why he gave me two girls.

If you've read my blog for a while, you've read how nothing is ever just handed to me on a silver platter. Heck, I'd take a silver platter. I don't even have any trophies for all the years of sports I played. Perhaps that's why I'm drawn to shiny metallic things to this day. They've been withheld from me. But I digress.  

Take for instance my daughters. My wife and I have two wonderful, fun, energetic daughters. They are princesses, and I love them dearly. But based on the fact that I did not go to Prince Charming School, I am challenged almost daily with my girly-girls.  

Lily's bat is pink as well.  She
was upset when she played
the team that got the pink
uniforms.  

They've turned my once carefully decorated from clearance decor deals home into a gaudy pink infested wasteland. Pink cups, shoes, blankets, Belle underoos, Barbie cars, Build-A-Bears, wooden dolls, dresses, napkins, carseats, you-name-it, it's probably pink. And if, God forbid, it's not pink, than it's purple. And so when the hour long tornado that is post elementary school energy transpires, when I'm wiped out and suffering from a brain-cloud, my house is violated by blush loving princesses.

I however, have never seen the world through rose colored glasses.  I hate pink--or at least I used to.

I'm not a violent man, but this...makes...me...angry. 

Don't get me wrong, I won't wear pink now. Not like those frat boys in 2006 with carefully spiked blonde hair, A&F designer jeans with glitter on the back pockets, and that lightly-aged pink American Eagle polo with the popped collar. No, even a coral stitch is too much pink for me. Sorry, I guess I embraced my stereotyped gender role a long time ago.

Yet, with my oldest daughter nearing eight years old, I no longer cringe when shopping in the girls aisles without my daughters.  I don't care about the odd stares by questioning strangers, "Sorry, I actually love my daughters, what's your problem..."

Nadia is arresting Lily
for not wearing enough
pink at Toys R' Us. 

Perhaps you're reading this and saying, "how dare you raise your kids under such an archaic societal precept as gender-color encoding!"  Actually, probably nobody is saying that, because I purposely alienated every annoying person from my sociology classes that would say something like that.

My daughters choose this mostly for themselves.  I tried to get them to like football, and blue, and stories with boys, and ESPN, and Star Wars, and lions, and snakes, and snails, and puppy dog tails. But my girls are sugar and spice and everything nicely coated in a shade of fuchsia.

The sugar Plum(b) fairies bring
baby Jesus a gift of sugar plums.  

And you know what?  I like it. As much as I sometimes need a testosterone comrade besides my un-neutered dog to enjoy all things masculine, I like love the girly girl tendencies of my daughters.

And that's the way God likes to work on me. Like a pink pumice stone grinding off my male gender callouses.  So thanks, God, for daughters.  Next thing you know, I'll buy one of those baseball caps with the pink ribbon on it. Okay, maybe not. (I'll just give the donation to the Susan G. Komen foundation).