Mars and Venus.

While picking up my daughter from school the other day, I waited in the breezeway under the metal awning where I usually stand trying to stay out of the rain and wind. As my daughter approached, I knew it was not good. She has no ability to fake it or maybe she just doesn’t want to. She had a bad day. She chucked her backpack at me and glared unblinking as we walked up the steps to my truck. I knew I was in for an unpleasant afternoon unless I did some fast-talking. Some days, I can diffuse and distract and disarm her bad days and this day I could, but even on good days, she is tempestuous and moody and volatile. She is also seven, so some of this may come with the territory, but I suspect that some of it is just natural to her and will likely cause me many headaches and certainly some heartache in the coming years.


My son is a different animal entirely. While he certainly has his days, he is, for the most part, stable. He is pretty predictable. I understand his motivations and know where his buttons are. I have a much easier time handling him. Again, some of this is probably natural. He is thoughtful and aware and perceptive and may be unique in these ways. He is also a boy, as am I. We are connected by our mutual lack of understanding of his Mom and sister. Have no illusions here, he can drive me bananas, too, but it not as difficult for me to talk him off the ledge of crazy.

Following my most frustrating parenting debacles, as I sit shaking my head and wondering what to do, I ponder how much is on me and I figure that nearly all of it is, especially when dealing with a seven year old girl. But, I simply don’t understand how her mind works. I was crushed one day when she, crying and screaming, told me I didn’t “know her at all” and that I didn’t know “what was in her heart!” This blow hit me hard. These were tough words to hear, probably because they were true.

The toughest pill to swallow looking forward is that this is unlikely to change. Girls and boys are different. Being a boy, I don’t get it. I can’t get it. My wife will, loudly and certainly, attest to this fact. She has tried hard to make me get it and I still don’t. Some days the distance between Mars and Venus seems not substantial enough to define the great chasm that exists between me and my girls. I try, God knows, I try to get it, but I don’t and probably never will.

In my long, yet shamefully lack luster, experience with the better-smelling sex, I have come to learn that I don’t learn. And while this bothers me, it doesn’t bother me that much. I think it is un-learnable and I don’t think they really care if I understand. I think they just want me to perform to their standard, whatever and wherever that is. If I can be trained to a certain degree, I think that would be acceptable to my wife and daughter. This I think I can do. Not all the time, but some times and that may just be good enough to keep these girls happy or at least happy enough.

While it may seem that I have set an exceptionally low bar for my behavior, I have not. Trying to keep or make other people happy is a daunting minefield of uncertain choices. Nonetheless, it is worth the struggle and failures and effort to try. A little girl’s fickle smile and hug is worth whatever head-splitting, ear-piecing, heartbreaking path it takes to get there. Every single time.