Daughter studies. Fathers raising daughters. Nigel Latta

Foreword
Sweets, spices... and some napalm
In trendy jeans and a pink top that showed too much for a thirteen-year-old, she looked as sweet as fake maple syrup, but I've worked with teenagers long enough to know that the content of a book and its cover are rarely related.

If you suddenly get lost in the wilderness, do not try to eat red berries - most likely, they will turn out to be poisonous. In the same way, beware of bright girls - they are the most biting.

Her mother and father brought her in, although it would be more accurate to say that they lured her into my office with a mixture of threats, bribery and pleading. Mom was stuck in a traffic jam, and so far there were only three of us.

Recently, Kara has discovered that she can get her way by constantly terrorizing and horrifying her parents. She was not old enough to understand the good reasons why her parents were scared when they heard her threats to leave the house; these threats arose whenever they tried to object to her endless demands.

“Peter, I don't think Amanda will be here soon. Why don't we start right now? I asked her father. - What brings you to me?

The man glanced at his daughter, who deliberately rolled her eyes and sank down in her chair as if she was completely uninterested in what was happening, but at the same time it was clear that she was enjoying every second of the drama.

We have problems from time to time.

Kara looked at him in turn with a long, contemptuous, well-rehearsed smirk.

- What are they? I asked.

Apparently we can't agree on anything.

“No,” Kara snapped, and the venom in her voice would make even an Australian spiketail shudder. - It is not true.

- See? Today we argue about everything.

- And what? Kara added poison.

“Me and your mother don’t like it, and I’m sure it’s not good for…”

“You know, if mom wasn’t such a creature, there wouldn’t be any disputes.

I realized that Kara was starting to wind up. In my experience, thirteen-year-old girls are a bit like dynamite that's been out in the sun for too long: after a while it starts to leak gelignite, and eventually it only takes a small hit to blow everything up.

"Please don't talk about your mother like that," he said. Peter.

Most of us would not have reacted to this phrase, but Peter spoke firmly and sensibly. He didn't curse or threaten or raise his voice at her. He even said "please". None of this mattered, however, because Kara needed a reason, and his words worked as well as any other.

- Go to hell! she shouted, jumped to her feet, burst into tears and assumed the pose of a martyr - all this in one movement. “You are just like her. You are always on her side and you never listen to me. Go to hell - I don't have to sit here and endure all this.

Before Peter could say anything, she stormed out of the room, slamming the door so hard that the wall behind me vibrated.

We sat silently, waiting for the dust to settle around, literally and figuratively. There was an expression on Peter's face that I had seen so many times over the years of work: a curious combination of bone-chilling shame and utter despair.

Do you know where the word "napalm" comes from? I asked. (When working with men, you can be sure that they almost always know what napalm is.)

- Sorry?

- Napalm. Do you know where this word comes from?

He shook his head.

- No.

“It is made up of two ingredients that are used to gel fuel: naphthenic and palmitic acids. Napalm.

- Is it true?

- Yes. The naphthenic part is taken from crude oil, and the palmitic part is taken from vegetable palm oil. They were first used during the Second World War, on July 17, 1944, during the bombing of a fuel depot in France. Do you know what is the secret of good napalm?

- Он должен быть липким, - ответил Peter.

“Exactly,” I replied, thinking again about how wonderful it is to work with men, because they know about such things as the secret of good napalm. “Before it appeared, the problem was that the substance of incendiary bombs spilled everywhere and burned out very quickly. It was necessary to find something both sticky and combustible.

“I understand,” he said. “She constantly floods us with napalm.

“Raising a daughter can be difficult,” I said, and he nodded slowly in agreement. “They tell you that it’s all sweets and spices, but no one talks about napalm.

“Half the time I have no idea what's going on with her,” he replied. “When she was little, things weren't so bad, but now… My God! Why is no one write a book and not explain to us poor, bewildered fathers what goes on in the heads of their daughters?

“Actually,” I replied, “that’s exactly what I’m doing now. I think you may well be in the preface, which is exactly what I'm looking for.

Peter laughed.

- What will the book be about?

“Something like a guide for fathers on raising daughters. I will tell you why girls seem so unusual, when in fact they are not, and I will explain the important rules that I learned from those fathers and daughters who approached me.

- For example?

“Like not being a big girl.

Peter laughed again.

- What does it mean?

“It means that if you have a daughter, you don't have to be a woman to raise her.

“Thank God,” he said. “If I were like her, in a day our house would be a smoking ruin.

At that moment, Amanda entered my office, finally getting out of her road troubles.

- Where is Kara? she asked.

Do you know that napalm is made from palm oil? - спросил ее Peter.

- For what? she asked in surprise.

Peter and I looked at each other, enjoying the brotherhood that only comes when men share technical information about firebombs.

Such conversations are for real men.

As is this book.

1
Zombies and high heels
Let's be clear: for most of us, women are an absolute mystery. We only pretend to understand them (because if we don't, we'll be in big trouble), when in fact they confuse us. Why, for example, do they like to talk endlessly about the many complex tasks that they are able to perform daily: wake up, dress and feed the children, do housework, brush their teeth, comb their hair, pack bags, take the children to school, buy groceries without leaving the budget limits, wash and darn clothes, go to the doctor, pick up children from school, take children to useful circles and sections, return home, cook dinner, set the table, brush teeth, put children to bed, do household accounting; in addition, they claim to remember all birthdays, favorite colors of loved ones, names of teachers, names of friends, who is allergic to what, who has what hairstyle, the time of the next high tide and full moon, and some also work - some for half a day, and who and the whole day ... however put them in front of a car with a flat tire and they will go into a stupor. Most women in this case call the "Automobile Association", their husband, or immediately there and there.

Indeed, if they are excellent at many such tasks, how can they have a problem with a car tire? It's so simple! This is not shuttle programming or brain surgery. Everything is elementary: we raise the car with a jack, remove the clamping nuts, remove the punctured tire, put on a new one, tighten the nuts, lower the jack.

It is done.

Just yesterday I received a wonderful letter on this topic: I was advised to watch the new season of The Last Hero, where dads find themselves on an island with three children and have to learn all the things that moms do every day. This is a favorite show of my wife's friends: they have a lot of fun and even ROFL (rolling on the floor laughing) because of how smart moms are and what helpless losers dads are. The letter was really funny - I laughed once myself - but I am always surprised how often the fair sex thinks that he is also the smartest.

A smart person wouldn't wear high heels. Without a doubt, high heels are the most ridiculous type of footwear. It is almost impossible to walk in high heels, let alone run. Looking at high heels, I think: Isn't it crazy to wear something that hurts your feet and makes it impossible to run away from zombies? I am a man, and therefore I always think about topics such as escaping from zombies. Women don't seem to think much about this, which in my opinion - and certainly in yours - is not very far-sighted.

I especially love it when women claim that the reason they wear high heels, makeup, and all that nonsense is because of us men. And that they wouldn't do it if we didn't expect it from them.

Really?

You know, if women issue an executive order that says they expect me to wear high heels, a chicken suit, or even a plastic mustache, I'll just say, "No."

“We want you to wear stupid boots that will hurt your feet,” they will tell me.

“No,” I answer.

- Why? they will ask.

- Zombies.

- What?

- Zombies. I will not wear them, because it is impossible to run in such boots, and everything would be fine if I meet British-type zombies, slow, with tangled legs, but if it turns out to be an American type,