Prologue: What have I gotten myself into?

Somewhere between painting our new nursery two shades of lavender and viewing the fabric samples Devoted Wife had chosen for the lacy nursery curtains it hit me: the little girl who will be staring up at me from her crib in a few short weeks will be a complete foreigner to me. Sure, I had a couple of sisters growing up, but our family was dominated during those years by me and my four brothers who jumped, ran, raced, fought, farted, wrestled, spat and bled. Football, baseball, wrestling and soccer practices occupied our evenings and weekends, and trips to the emergency room, orthopedic surgeon and physical therapist were the norm. When we wanted to hurt each other, we punched, kicked or -- in one gloriously strange incident -- stabbed one another with something sharp (but not life threatening). Making fun of each other's weaknesses was also fair game: one brother's bedwetting was freely shared with friends and neighbors, while another's childhood surgery on his netherparts was the subject of jokes and wisecracks. Now when we get together we like to watch college football on the big screen and talk about our glory days when we strapped on the pads.

Devoted Wife, on the other hand, grew up with four sisters (how their sole brother escaped with his manhood intact is still a mystery to me). Their childhood was one of tea parties, dress up, jewelry, makeup, cotillions and eventually debutante balls where they were chaperoned by white-gloved escorts. No fisticuffs were employed between sisters, but apparently the emotional warfare was equally damaging and could have longer lasting effects. Today, atop the list for sisterly gatherings for them is a trip to the spa, where facials and pedicures bring them closer together.

As could be expected, Devoted Wife had always looked forward to sharing her childhood memories with a daughter one day, and was justifiably thrilled when our OB/GYN announced during an ultrasound exam that we'd be having a little girl. I was also very excited to learn that our first child would be a girl, but soon afterward the realization hit that this was going to require an entirely new skill set that I currently didn't possess. A little boy, I knew, would have been simple: feed him, give him a few balls to play with and occasionally tell him to "rub some dirt on it" and not to cry like a baby if he struck out, got tackled or clotheslined. But a little girl? With all due respect to Winston Churchill, it was a little girl that was the riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma.

Since that day in the doctor's office, I've watched little girls in action to try to learn a few of their moves and understand what makes them tick. And while I remain completely baffled and terrified, here's what I think I've picked up so far:

1. Little girls' screams are the most powerful sound on earth. When a friend's two young daughters visited our home one afternoon and chased each other around and around our living room, I realized that the American military had missed out on an undiscovered weapon. When our soliders in Panama were trying to force Manuel Noriega out of his fortress by driving him crazy with loud music, they should have instead played a recording of a few five year old girls chasing each other. The screams can be deafening . . . and little girls can apparently sustain a single scream for about an hour before having to breathe. Amazing.

2. Little girls all want to be princesses. I should have figured this out a long time ago by looking at Walt Disney marketing strategies. The heroine of nearly every Disney movie is a princess of some sort (Indian princess, Native American Princess, Princess of the Sea, Princess-who-was-born-a-princess-but-who-was-forced-into-hiding-in-poverty-after-fleeing -certain-death, Princess-who-was-born-into-poverty-but-became-a-princess-after-meeting
-the-handsome-prince-who-apparently-couldn’t-find-a-real-princess-to-marry, Evil-princess- who-deposed-her-twin-sister-who-herself-had-become-a-princess-after-meeting-a-handsome
-prince, etc.). Most little girls would be perfectly fine being a princess every year for Halloween, having a princess birthday party every twelve months and wearing a princess dress to school every day of the year. The problem seems to be that being the father of a princess doesn't automatically make you the King.

3. Little girls' crying is harder to ignore than little boys'. While I think (at this point) that I could dismiss a son's crying by telling him that "big boys don't cry," I think I'd feel awful doing that to my Baby Girl. So in some ways the little girls have a weapon against their parents that boys don't. Maybe I'll be able to learn to tell the difference between crocodile tears and the Real McCoy, but until that point I suspect I'll be a sucker for my baby girl's whimpers and sobs.

4. Little girls love their daddies. This one is perhaps my favorite observation. Little girls want their daddies to love and protect them, and hopefully are around to take care of daddy in his old age. (OK, this requires some observation of older girls too . . . my sisters are far better at remembering Mom and Dad's birthdays and anniversaries and making sure that we all have the correct dates for the family reunions, etc.). It seems there are perks to being the daddy of a little girl.

So, lest anyone get the wrong idea, I'm not saying that I'd prefer to have a little boy. On the contrary, the idea of having a little girl who is eternally devoted to her daddy gets me a little misty-eyed. It's just that I'm oblivious as to what is about to happen -- accordingly, I fully expect to rely heavily on Devoted Wife's experiences, intuition and judgment.

And I'm pretty sure that I'll still be able to teach Baby Girl to throw a spiral, do a slide tackle and use an arm bar. Just you wait, little boys.