I have two daughters. One irreparably crushed ACORN’s nuts (how ya’ doing, Bertha Lewis?), and the other, at the ripe old age of eighteen, writes for the NRA. When these female charges popped out of their mommy’s womb years ago, this thing called “responsibility for their upbringing” hit me like a nunchuck.
I didn’t slough off my role in their lives onto my wife, my church, public school, daycare, relatives, TV, or “the village.” I didn’t expect any of them to fill my boots. I, along with my lovely wife, got my daughters here, and dammit, it’s our job—especially my job as alpha male of the Giles castle—to prepare them internally and externally for greatness.
Living in Miami, I knew I would have to pony up and be a major player in my little ones’ lives if I wanted them to escape being part of the local teen fart cloud. I knew I’d have to pay attention to them and spend time with them to instill solid values and principles. In other words, I was going to have to be a dad in the traditional sense of the word. Isn’t that weird?
Call me goofy, but I don’t want my nippers being inept, stressed-out, unconfident young women who hate their bodies, get easily depressed, have no self-esteem, and will likely have issues with their weight. Also, I want to diminish the chances that my girls bail out of school or bow and kiss the ring of some abusive boyfriend or husband.
In addition, I’d like to make certain that my daughters never flaunt themselves to get the attention of some Darwinian-throwback-gold-toothed-rapping-thug just so they can be the chief hoochie in his stupid booty video.
Furthermore, as my daughters’ dad, I’d like to reduce the possibility that they’ll ever become sex objects—or pregnant teens. I do not want my chicas becoming STD wagons or teens who do dope and abuse booze. I’d like to make certain that they’ve got a snowball’s chance in Miami of ever seeing that junk occur in their lives.
What about you, Papasan? Would you like to guarantee your girl doesn’t end up being Anna Nicole Smith? You would? Good for you. Then keep reading.
Padre, I’ve got some advice for you. Mind if I share it? Great, here it is: Do not disengage from your daughter. Hang around your home and let your girl know (by your actions) that you really care about her while showing her maximum affection.
That’s right, you must cherish, coach, and guard your niña. Got it?
A lack of mental, physical, and spiritual input from you, Daddy-o, will exponentially boost the odds that your youngster will grow up to be more lost than Jenna Jameson sitting in on a Knox Seminary class discussing the symbolism in Revelation 18.
If you do not want your daughter to end up like Paris Hilton or Britney Spears and would, instead, like to raise a sharp, solid, and smart señorita, then you, Dad, must get off your butt and get caught up in your girl’s life.
Your lady cannot raise your daughter alone—and even if she could, she doesn’t bring to the table what a man does. Period. I don’t care what any lesbian sociology teacher at Columbia says or what rancid Rosie propagates. Single moms, as great as some of them are, or lesbians (no matter how masculine they look and act) do not give your daughter what an involved father does.
Feminists would love for all of us to believe that the dad’s role in his daughter’s life really isn’t that important and that a dad can be easily replaced by lesbians, public school, or Hillary’s “village.” This is the Kool-Aid being served to postmodern society, and, unfortunately, many people are drinking this poison and asking for seconds.
I beg to differ with these delirious dames and the dullards who parrot their opinions. No person is more important to a girl’s well-modulated existence than a dad who’s got his act together. A father who exhibits the God-given features of the alpha male is an irreplaceable ingredient in the recipe for a truly lovely and lively lady.
*For more 411 regarding raising righteous and rowdy kids, check out my book How to Keep Jackasses Away From Daddy’s Girl.
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