I was glad that my wife and I had three boys. I always joked that I would be the dad that carried a pair of pliers in my back pocket to take care of any boys who showed even the slightest amorous hint toward a daughter of mine; or looked at her with any kind of sexual over (or under) tone.
Scratch that thought, I have unfortunately bred a fourteen year old, six-foot-three-inch, chic magnet. The ooh’s and ah’s from women when he was a lanky little seven year old red haired cutie should have been some indicator of the problems to come.
Mind you, this isn’t my opinion, that my son’s myspace.com photos are the object of multiple dozens of different girls whose comments range from the casual “You’re so cuuuuute,” to the brazen sexual proposition of loosely-moraled young girls, are obvious indicators. Oh, and he’s a musician, a guitar player, no less.