What are little girls made of?

What Are Little Girls Made Of? (A short story) If you’re a father then you can probably relate to what I’m about to tell you. One Friday my wife was sleeping at her parents house, and I was packing up the suitcase for the annual family reunion. Earlier that morning I woke my son, Joshua, up at about 6:30. Josh did his business in the bathroom, got showered and dressed, and went to school around 8:00.     Like me, I bet a lot of you guys consider yourself at least intelligent enough to get through the day, right? You can serviceably cook a meal, throw a load of laundry in, and go about your daily routine, right? Maybe your woman used to shower you with compliments about how smart you are, about how good your cooking is, how nice you look.     Ever notice that that all changes when you have a kid? Suddenly you become the most braindead lazy buffoon the world has ever known. It’s not just your wife, either; parents, in laws, doctors, you name it seem to think we have no idea which end a diaper goes on. Well, my story may just prove them right.     So I’m watching my daughter, Lilly, while Karen sleeps, and Josh is at school. I’m trying to get Lilly’s lunch made, do dishes, get the suitcases packed, and wash clothes all at the same time. We’ve got one of those “baby gates” upstairs, and I have it blocking the bathroom door. I get upstairs from the basement, and of course where did Lilly make a beeline to? The bathroom. She must have mustered all the strength a little three year old girl can summon, because she ripped the gate right from the door jam. Well, to my dismay apparently Joshua had forgotten to flush the toilet that morning, so here is my daughter covered in… well, you know. I think I had a face of rage as the first two thoughts to enter my mind were A: “How am I going to clean this girl up”, (she even got her shoes in the toilet) and B: “I am so totally busted.” So I’m looking pretty angry, about to get her ready for a shower and wondering how I’m going to explain to my wife that there’s a perfectly good reason why our daughter smells like fermented piss when Lilly says to me “Daddy?” and then sings: “What are little girls made of? What are little girls made of? Sugar and spice, and everything nice; that’s what little girls are made of.” The effect was, of course, completely disarming. I did my duty, picking bits of old toilet paper out of her hair, without complaint. Those are the types of moments that you have as a father, the ambition one has as a young man is replaced by the need to just make it through the next little crisis, usually covered in something that smells absolutely awful, so that your children can grow in an environment that is secure, where they can mess up, and know that there is a connection with you, that that one song, or look, or spoken word can make things instantly better between you.