Several years ago, when my daughters were still shorter than me, my husband went to work sparkling. I’m not saying he has a scintillating personality, although if you need a bad joke to cheer you up, he’s your man. I’m saying big, tall, bearded, jet-engine mechanic, tough guy was walking around the factory floor sprinkling fairy dust all over. I knew about this, I just didn’t think he’d notice. Our youngest daughter got some new glitter jeans. I washed them with the other clothes, not really thinking about the glitter coming off. When I took the clothes out of the wash, I noticed his shirts were sparkling, but since they hang dry, I figured the sparkles would shake off. They did not shake off. Not only did he notice, but his co-workers noticed too. When asked why he was sparkling, he had no idea, but speculated, “My kids are little girls.”

My husband is surprisingly tolerant of our daughters’ female desires. My youngest daughter had an occasional whim to make him look “pretty.” She clipped up his hair, put boas and scarves on him, painted his pinky finger nail (that’s his limit). After he was let loose, he removed all of the “pretty” paraphernalia except the one pinky with pink nail polish. That, he wore to work with pride. He wouldn’t let any of the guys talk him into removing the polish with any of the solvents around the shop. When he returned home, our daughter beamed at the thought of dad wearing nail polish to work; her mark on him. He also played Barbies with them. He was Ken. When they both insisted their Barbie marry Ken, he tried to explain the social complications of Ken being married to both Barbies. They didn’t care. They both wanted their Barbie to marry Ken anyway. So dad’s Ken married the girls’ Barbies, while dad stated he felt they’d be another divorce statistic if Ken didn’t get arrested for polygamy first. The girls were happily ignorant to his concerns.

Our girls were young then, 10 and 7 years. In those now blissful memories with his girls, his life hadn’t even begun to get complicated yet. Spreading fairy dust and pink fingernails were nothing compared to puberty. He has a shop out in the backyard where he works on his old cars. When he is weary of the female gender he goes to this cave that smells only of engine oil, grease and exhaust. He can relax, if only for a few moments, in the fumes which remind him he’s a guy’s guy, then he wanders happily in, back to his family, back to his girls.

Gretchen is a stay-at-home mom committed to writing about the humor amidst the chaos of a family. You can read her daily blog and reach her at her website – livingwithgleigh.com.