SNAKES, SNAILS...NOT!

Sometimes, I don't know if the Lord blessed me or cursed me as far as children are concerned. "Happy is the man whose quiver is full", has long been a biblical passage that spoke to me in a personal and direct way. It seemed like my destiny was going to be that of the man that produced nothing but boys. Rough and tumble, get in a fight at the drop of the hat boys. Lover not fighter boys, artistically inclined, television star type boys. You name it, and I had it, somewhere down in the quiver. Now don't get me wrong, I have long held the belief that boys would be a whole lot less stress to raise. Friends of mine that had nothing but girls, used to tell me how lucky I was. I didn't suffer like they did. I wouldn't have the sleepless nights worrying about the potential harms way situations that would arise. All I had to do with the dudes was to make sure they had the proper amount of direction, discipline, and basketball training, and they'd be good to go. It has worked like a charm too. Two older sons having attended my college alma mater on basketball scholarships. The next two are currently enrolled in school, and are also playing ball. The caboose end guy showing the promise to do the same, if not more, than his older brothers.
Enter Shiloh, the last of the Mohican's (actually her mother is Pawnee). She is the epitome of daintiness. My entry for this week's blog was to be based on my travels for work, and how it impacts Fatherhood at Fifty. But as I write this, Shiloh is walking around the den with one of the Pawnee's decorative wrist bangles adorning each elbow. One is a patterned, pink plastic number, the other identical, except it is gold. She constantly drapes one of the wife's purses, or any facsimile thereof, over her shoulders like she is on her way to Rodeo Drive. She is particularly fond of the Barbie phone that my granddaughter let her have. Push a button and some disgusting recorded message about "going to the concert with Theresa" comes on. As for the discipline, I tell her just now in a firm voice, not to push the buttons on the satellite receiver. Her feelings get hurt and she saunters over and slaps me on my hand as I type on the keyboard. So much for that. When she picks up her food, it is done in the fastidious manner that one would expect of a tea sipper in the court of King Louis, the whatever. Two fingers, very precise, index and thumb, with the other three extended outward. I'm absolutely positive Shiloh will benefit greatly from the direction, and my feeble attempts at discipline. As far as the basketball training goes, she may be way too cute for that nonsense...