A blogging single mom friend recently said that she felt bad for her daughters' self image since she was raising them in a home without a man. I understood her concern – as a single father raising a daughter, I made it a point to stay involved in my daughters life. I wanted to be the male presence as my kid grew up. It's good for girls to grow up confident in their relationships with men.
But the single mom’s reasons for wanting a dad around didn’t resonate with me. She wanted a man to dote on her girls daily, make them feel good about themselves so they’d grow into confident women.
Sorry, but I don’t dote on my daughter. It’s been a conscious decision of mine her whole life. I love having a girl in my family, and I certainly treat her well, but I’m not raising a princess. Maybe it’s because I grew up in a family of boys, I never saw what it was like for a dad to daily dote on any daughters in his home. I saw plenty of affection between my dad and mom, and they were great raising me and my brother. But dote? Ha. We cleaned the toilets and emptied the trash as much as anyone.
I know everyone is different, and people have their own parenting styles and cultural traditions. But as a dad raising a daughter I firmly believe that men who dote on their girls are not giving them confidence – they're taking that confidence away.
When a dad raises his daughter as a princess, a few things can happen. One is that she feels entitled to get anything she wants. That's not healthy. When she grows up and gets married, she’ll treat her husband poorly.
Second, she might only feel good about herself when a man is around giving her his undivided attention, and adoring her. Wouldn’t it be better if she liked herself on her own terms?
My daughter is in college right now. She’s won awards for soccer and softball. She’s a great student. She's looking forward to moving away from home, and exploring the world on her own terms. In short, she’s extremely confident, even without a lifetime of doting.
I didn’t raise a princess. And my nearly-grown daughter feels great about herself. Like a queen.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Cooking With My Daughter And Her Friend – Who’s Schooling Whom?
I convinced my daughter to help me cook dinner the other night. (A little bribery was all it took.) Aside from the time she kabitzed on our worlds best hamburger recipe, cooking with my daughter usually means me telling her what to do. I don't mind. There's a reason why I cook.
But this time I wanted to raise the stakes, and not only tell my daughter what to do, but why. I wanted my daughter to start thinking like a chef, to be comfortable altering recipes, to see what it’s like to put a meal together from scratch.
Little did I know, she would be schooling me.
“What can I do?” she asked.
We were making asparagus pasta, risotto style.
“Chop an onion,” I said.
“Onions make me cry,” she said. “You do that. What’s the next step?”
Okay then.
I figured she’s chopped plenty of onions in her day. She’s doesn't quite have the onion chopping prowess of Julia Child in Julie and Julia, but she’s certainly capable. I didn’t mind her passing on the onion task.
“Melt 3 tablespoons of butter in the frying pan,” I said.
She cut off a chunk from a stick of butter and dropped it in the pan. I finished chopping the onion, then brought the chopped onion over to dump in the pan. The butter had barely started melting.
“Can you break up that big chunk of butter so it will melt faster?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “I’m watching it dance around the pan.”
Anyone who remembers the movie American Beauty, and the video of the plastic bag blowing around, can certainly appreciate that my daughter was finding beauty and life in an inanimate object. But I had onions to sautee.
I dumped the onions in, even though her butter wasn’t melted. You can imagine how that went over.
I instructed my daughter on cooking the pasta, mixing in warm chicken broth, adding the asparagus, doing things at five minute intervals. She waved me off and took over. Fine. I went about making bruschetta: fresh tomatoes, garlic, salt, pepper, basil.
My daughters friend floated into the kitchen. “Don’t put in too much garlic,” she said.
“I won’t,” I said.
“But you always do.”
“I’m making this late. The flavors won’t have time to meld. It will be fine.”
She shook her head. “One clove, no more. And be sure to use fresh basil.” She’s half Italian, so she gets the real deal from her mom’s house.
“I don’t have fresh basil,” I said.
She heaved a sigh and shook her head. “Here, I’ll make it.”
Some cooking lesson I was giving.
With both kids preparing dishes, I figured I might as well shake myself a cocktail. My margarita recipe is to die for.
“Can I make your margarita?” my daughter asked.
“No, you’re too young,” I said.
“I already know how.”
Great. But I wouldn’t be swayed.
I started by rinsing the rim of the glass under running water, so I could dunk the rim in a container of margarita salt, and the salt would stick.
“That’s not how you do it,” my daughter said. “You’ll end up with salt inside the glass. You need to run a wet towel around the rim, instead.”
“How do you know that?” I asked.
“I watched them make margaritas at the Mexican restauarant.”
We’d sat at the bar of the Mexican restaurant plenty of times, eating while watching soccer on TV, usually when the restaurant was fairly empty. (I once hit on a woman in front of my daughter at that Mexican restaurant bar. It wasn't easy.)
I followed my daughter’s instruction, and wouldn’t you know, the rim salted perfectly.
Okay, so maybe I had nothing to teach the girls in the kitchen this particular night. Next time I’ll make something more complicated, like chicken and dumplings, and really show them the ropes.
Then again, the asparagus pasta and bruschetta came out pretty good. Maybe I should let the girls cook every night. We might start eating better.
But this time I wanted to raise the stakes, and not only tell my daughter what to do, but why. I wanted my daughter to start thinking like a chef, to be comfortable altering recipes, to see what it’s like to put a meal together from scratch.
Little did I know, she would be schooling me.
“What can I do?” she asked.
We were making asparagus pasta, risotto style.
“Chop an onion,” I said.
“Onions make me cry,” she said. “You do that. What’s the next step?”
Okay then.
I figured she’s chopped plenty of onions in her day. She’s doesn't quite have the onion chopping prowess of Julia Child in Julie and Julia, but she’s certainly capable. I didn’t mind her passing on the onion task.
“Melt 3 tablespoons of butter in the frying pan,” I said.
She cut off a chunk from a stick of butter and dropped it in the pan. I finished chopping the onion, then brought the chopped onion over to dump in the pan. The butter had barely started melting.
“Can you break up that big chunk of butter so it will melt faster?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “I’m watching it dance around the pan.”
Anyone who remembers the movie American Beauty, and the video of the plastic bag blowing around, can certainly appreciate that my daughter was finding beauty and life in an inanimate object. But I had onions to sautee.
I dumped the onions in, even though her butter wasn’t melted. You can imagine how that went over.
I instructed my daughter on cooking the pasta, mixing in warm chicken broth, adding the asparagus, doing things at five minute intervals. She waved me off and took over. Fine. I went about making bruschetta: fresh tomatoes, garlic, salt, pepper, basil.
My daughters friend floated into the kitchen. “Don’t put in too much garlic,” she said.
“I won’t,” I said.
“But you always do.”
“I’m making this late. The flavors won’t have time to meld. It will be fine.”
She shook her head. “One clove, no more. And be sure to use fresh basil.” She’s half Italian, so she gets the real deal from her mom’s house.
“I don’t have fresh basil,” I said.
She heaved a sigh and shook her head. “Here, I’ll make it.”
Some cooking lesson I was giving.
With both kids preparing dishes, I figured I might as well shake myself a cocktail. My margarita recipe is to die for.
“Can I make your margarita?” my daughter asked.
“No, you’re too young,” I said.
“I already know how.”
Great. But I wouldn’t be swayed.
I started by rinsing the rim of the glass under running water, so I could dunk the rim in a container of margarita salt, and the salt would stick.
“That’s not how you do it,” my daughter said. “You’ll end up with salt inside the glass. You need to run a wet towel around the rim, instead.”
“How do you know that?” I asked.
“I watched them make margaritas at the Mexican restauarant.”
We’d sat at the bar of the Mexican restaurant plenty of times, eating while watching soccer on TV, usually when the restaurant was fairly empty. (I once hit on a woman in front of my daughter at that Mexican restaurant bar. It wasn't easy.)
I followed my daughter’s instruction, and wouldn’t you know, the rim salted perfectly.
Okay, so maybe I had nothing to teach the girls in the kitchen this particular night. Next time I’ll make something more complicated, like chicken and dumplings, and really show them the ropes.
Then again, the asparagus pasta and bruschetta came out pretty good. Maybe I should let the girls cook every night. We might start eating better.
Monday, February 7, 2011
My Teen Daughter is Dating
My teen daughter recently told me she has a boyfriend. Hooray for her! She’s eighteen, so this is a normal and healthy part of growing up for her, and an inevitable milestone for me as her dad.
She told me a bit about him – smart, athletic, etc. (And close to her age – unlike Miley Cyrus’s boyfriend Justin Gaton, who is twenty. Doh!) I won’t go into more detail for privacy sake. I’ll just say, it sounds like my teenage daughter is making good choices.
[Ed. Note: my daughter and I discussed this post before I wrote it, and I'm not disrespecting her privacy.]
A neighborhood mom recently asked if I’d met the teen boyfriend yet. Um….no, can’t say that I have. Is that a problem? I didn’t think so. I long ago had a father daughter talk about sex and relationships with her, and we’ve had ongoing conversations since. But this mom was concerned that I should be more clued in and involved regarding my daughter’s dating life.
For the record, this mom has met my daughter’s teen boyfriend, and she backs my daughter up on the quality of this young man. So that’s not the issue. The mom simply won’t let her own teenage daughter go on dates with a boy until the mom has met him. She wants to see for herself who her daughter is spending time and getting close with.
On first blush, this makes sense. A parent should care what company their teen keeps. My parents certainly knew the family of the girl I was dating as a teen. So I have no problem with the neighborhood mom’s choice regarding her own daughter.
But looking closer, I’m not so sure my choice is that bad, either.
Mainly because when I have dated, I didn’t have my daughter meet my girlfriend until enough time had passed that I felt things were serious enough to involve them. To this day, my daughter has met two women I’ve dated, and a few more close female friends. Each time, I waited a few months before introducing these women to my daughter.
In other words, my daughter is doing the exact same thing in terms of me meeting her teenage boyfriend that I did with her meeting my adult girlfriends.
I trust my daughter’s judgment. Plus, teens her age tend to date in groups. They hang out together, usually at one parent’s house with a parent home. Just not my house right now. I know at some point I’ll meet my daughter’s boyfriend, hopefully before they’re done being teens.
Can’t wait for my Meet the Fockers moment.
She told me a bit about him – smart, athletic, etc. (And close to her age – unlike Miley Cyrus’s boyfriend Justin Gaton, who is twenty. Doh!) I won’t go into more detail for privacy sake. I’ll just say, it sounds like my teenage daughter is making good choices.
[Ed. Note: my daughter and I discussed this post before I wrote it, and I'm not disrespecting her privacy.]
A neighborhood mom recently asked if I’d met the teen boyfriend yet. Um….no, can’t say that I have. Is that a problem? I didn’t think so. I long ago had a father daughter talk about sex and relationships with her, and we’ve had ongoing conversations since. But this mom was concerned that I should be more clued in and involved regarding my daughter’s dating life.
For the record, this mom has met my daughter’s teen boyfriend, and she backs my daughter up on the quality of this young man. So that’s not the issue. The mom simply won’t let her own teenage daughter go on dates with a boy until the mom has met him. She wants to see for herself who her daughter is spending time and getting close with.
On first blush, this makes sense. A parent should care what company their teen keeps. My parents certainly knew the family of the girl I was dating as a teen. So I have no problem with the neighborhood mom’s choice regarding her own daughter.
But looking closer, I’m not so sure my choice is that bad, either.
Mainly because when I have dated, I didn’t have my daughter meet my girlfriend until enough time had passed that I felt things were serious enough to involve them. To this day, my daughter has met two women I’ve dated, and a few more close female friends. Each time, I waited a few months before introducing these women to my daughter.
In other words, my daughter is doing the exact same thing in terms of me meeting her teenage boyfriend that I did with her meeting my adult girlfriends.
I trust my daughter’s judgment. Plus, teens her age tend to date in groups. They hang out together, usually at one parent’s house with a parent home. Just not my house right now. I know at some point I’ll meet my daughter’s boyfriend, hopefully before they’re done being teens.
Can’t wait for my Meet the Fockers moment.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
House Full of Teens and a Funny Joke
My daughter who is 18, and like any teenager she takes off for long stretches to hang out with her friends. For instance, the other day after school, she ran into some of her friends at Jamba Juice, and on the spur of the moment they all drove to the Apple store to buy an iPod cable. (Party on, Silicon Valley style! Haha)
I used to have to deal with missed curfews and late-night texts asking for the Dominos Pizza phone number, but these days those problems are gone.
My teen daughter and her friends are hanging out at my house.
They play epic games of Risk. They eat epic amounts of popcorn. (Healthy diet for a teen, include that food, right?) They watch an epic number of TV shows off their iPod on my TV. (That Apple cable rocks.) They stay up late watching House.
My house is suddenly the cool place to hang out. Who knows why? Of course, I’m doing nothing to blow it.
The other night I was making popcorn on the stove. I have one of those Whirly Crank Handle things. I swear, it’s better tasting (and healthier) than microwave.
Sometimes my stove doesn’t light, and so I used a match to get it going. I’m whirlying away when two of my daughter’s friends came in for drinks.
“Is something burning?” the teen boy asked.
“I’m making popcorn,” I said. “But it’s not burning.”
“No, something’s burning. I smell burnt sulfur.”
Remember the movie, About Schmidt? If so, you’ll recognize this.
“You mean, like someone lit a match?” I asked.
“Yeah, exactly!” he said.
“I just used the bathroom.”
Oops. Awkward moment. Their eyes went wide in shock, they couldn’t believe I’d actually said that. Here I was, an old man sharing too much info about my sphincter.
But then I let out a hearty laugh, and they realized I was joking them big time. They laughed with me, then made a bee-line back to the TV room.
Next time they come over I’ll find out if my cool parent points are still at epic enough levels for the kids to hang at Dad’s house.
I used to have to deal with missed curfews and late-night texts asking for the Dominos Pizza phone number, but these days those problems are gone.
My teen daughter and her friends are hanging out at my house.
They play epic games of Risk. They eat epic amounts of popcorn. (Healthy diet for a teen, include that food, right?) They watch an epic number of TV shows off their iPod on my TV. (That Apple cable rocks.) They stay up late watching House.
My house is suddenly the cool place to hang out. Who knows why? Of course, I’m doing nothing to blow it.
The other night I was making popcorn on the stove. I have one of those Whirly Crank Handle things. I swear, it’s better tasting (and healthier) than microwave.
Sometimes my stove doesn’t light, and so I used a match to get it going. I’m whirlying away when two of my daughter’s friends came in for drinks.
“Is something burning?” the teen boy asked.
“I’m making popcorn,” I said. “But it’s not burning.”
“No, something’s burning. I smell burnt sulfur.”
Remember the movie, About Schmidt? If so, you’ll recognize this.
“You mean, like someone lit a match?” I asked.
“Yeah, exactly!” he said.
“I just used the bathroom.”
Oops. Awkward moment. Their eyes went wide in shock, they couldn’t believe I’d actually said that. Here I was, an old man sharing too much info about my sphincter.
But then I let out a hearty laugh, and they realized I was joking them big time. They laughed with me, then made a bee-line back to the TV room.
Next time they come over I’ll find out if my cool parent points are still at epic enough levels for the kids to hang at Dad’s house.
Friday, February 4, 2011
French Women are Hot
I was recently in a financial services office where a gorgeous young woman was servicing me. (Now, now – just because my mind was in the gutter doesn’t mean yours needs to be, as well.)
She was sexy, pretty, early twenties. Dressed in the most fashionable business clothes that still looked professional (and I don’t mean the world’s oldest profession.) With alluring eyes and a killer smile.
Near the end of the servicing, the beautiful woman handed me her business card. Her name was unique. Persian?
“No,” she said. “I’m French.”
Just the way she said French was so damn hot. And her sultry look oozed sex appeal and confidence. I definitely felt my sexual energy rising.
I sensed it wasn’t just her. Rather, she was channeling the feminine energy of every French woman who came before. What is so damn sexy about French women? Big Little Wolf has waxed poetic on the sexiness of the French. With this particular woman, it was more than her looks and her sultry expression. Sexy is an attitude.
Of course, me being a single dad on high alert for my next girlfriend or fling (whichever comes easiest) – I wanted to ask her out on a date right then and there. But I’m mid-40s, and she’s early-20s, so the half-my-age-plus-seven math for an older man younger woman relationship didn’t quite work out.
I went back to the financial services company a week later, and was thrilled to see this hot sexy French woman was free when I came in. She serviced me again.
This time, she upped the eye contact to bedroom levels, almost daring me to make love to her right there on her desk.
Damn French.
I know, I might be projecting all of this. But trust me, as much as I love latina women, I don’t fill with lust and lose my ability to speak when I’m in their presence. I go for the kill.
This sexy French woman? She slew me.
She was sexy, pretty, early twenties. Dressed in the most fashionable business clothes that still looked professional (and I don’t mean the world’s oldest profession.) With alluring eyes and a killer smile.
Near the end of the servicing, the beautiful woman handed me her business card. Her name was unique. Persian?
“No,” she said. “I’m French.”
Just the way she said French was so damn hot. And her sultry look oozed sex appeal and confidence. I definitely felt my sexual energy rising.
I sensed it wasn’t just her. Rather, she was channeling the feminine energy of every French woman who came before. What is so damn sexy about French women? Big Little Wolf has waxed poetic on the sexiness of the French. With this particular woman, it was more than her looks and her sultry expression. Sexy is an attitude.
Of course, me being a single dad on high alert for my next girlfriend or fling (whichever comes easiest) – I wanted to ask her out on a date right then and there. But I’m mid-40s, and she’s early-20s, so the half-my-age-plus-seven math for an older man younger woman relationship didn’t quite work out.
I went back to the financial services company a week later, and was thrilled to see this hot sexy French woman was free when I came in. She serviced me again.
This time, she upped the eye contact to bedroom levels, almost daring me to make love to her right there on her desk.
Damn French.
I know, I might be projecting all of this. But trust me, as much as I love latina women, I don’t fill with lust and lose my ability to speak when I’m in their presence. I go for the kill.
This sexy French woman? She slew me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)