I have four ...

...daughters (pictured here with my parents) and that has been an incredible blessing to me. They are a tremendous gift of God. But there is one thing that I hate about having four daughters. One day they will probably marry. And that will mean that four unworthy young men will take them away from me. I've been concocting plans since the birth of my first to thwart this evil conspiracy, but as the days pass I'm becoming more and more resigned to my fate. Every now and then I slip into a mild depression when I think about it...usually after watching Father of the Bride.

I've always known that there are others who share my pain. And just today I found a poem by Ogden Nash that succinctly and poetically sums up my feelings. Nash has been a favorite poet of mine since grade 7 when I read his poem, "The Panther"...

The panther is just like a leopard
except it hasn't been peppered

should you see a panther crouch
prepare to say " ouch "

best yet, when called by a panther....
don't anther.....

But today as I read "Song To Be Sung by the Father of Infant Female Children" I realized that Mr. Nash and I are kindred spirits. So with apologies to my sister in law Marie (who has three sons and always insists that there are a few good young men in the world). and my friends Matt and Andrew (who between them have three sons who will probably turn out okay but will be too young for any of my daughters) I print it here in order to encourage all you other fathers who painfully await the arrival of "him", whoever he may be.

My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky;
Contrariwise, my blood runs cold
When little boys go by.
For little boys as little boys,
No special hate I carry,
But now and then they grow to men,
And when they do, they marry.
No matter how they tarry,
Eventually they marry.
And, swine among the pearls,
They marry little girls.

Oh, somewhere, somewhere, an infant plays,
With parents who feed and clothe him.
Their lips are sticky with pride and praise,
But I have begun to loathe him.
Yes, I loathe with loathing shameless
This child who to me is nameless.
This bachelor child in his carriage
Gives never a thought to marriage,
But a person can hardly say knife
Before he will hunt him a wife.

I never see an infant (male),
A-sleeping in the sun,
Without I turn a trifle pale
And think is he the one?
Oh, first he'll want to crop his curls,
And then he'll want a pony,
And then he'll think of pretty girls,
And holy matrimony.
A cat without a mouse
Is he without a spouse.

Oh, somewhere he bubbles bubbles of milk,
And quietly sucks his thumbs.
His cheeks are roses painted on silk,
And his teeth are tucked in his gums.
But alas the teeth will begin to grow,
And the bubbles will cease to bubble;
Given a score of years or so,
The roses will turn to stubble.
He'll sell a bond, or he'll write a book,
And his eyes will get that acquisitive look,
And raging and ravenous for the kill,
He'll boldly ask for the hand of Jill.
This infant whose middle
Is diapered still
Will want to marry My daughter Jill.

Oh sweet be his slumber and moist his middle!
My dreams, I fear, are infanticiddle.
A fig for embryo Lohengrins!
I'll open all his safety pins,
I'll pepper his powder, and salt his bottle,
And give him readings from Aristotle.
Sand for his spinach I'll gladly bring,
And Tabasco sauce for his teething ring.
Then perhaps he'll struggle through fire and water
To marry somebody else's daughter.

There. I've done it. Pray for me. And for those four unworthy, yet I fear unavoidable, young men out there somewhere.