I never liked children. Noisy, troublesome, messy, monsters. As a younger man I stood amazed in grocery stores, malls, almost any public place. Who would bring these nasty, hateful little creatures into the world to whine, cry, scream, fight with their siblings, disobey their parents, be rude to their elders and on and on and on.

To say I had a less than optimal childhood is a pretty major under-statement. So perhaps that colored my thinking on the whole parenting process. But I never had an interest in pinching little cheeks, holding little bodies, or even playing games with people younger than myself. Heck, I didn’t like my own siblings much when we were children.

I never liked children at all. Until I had my own.

I came reluctantly to parenthood, but did try to do my part during the whole process of pregnancy. I played music for my daughters, I spoke into my wife’s swelling belly with fearful hope that would somehow make everything OK at some point down the line. I tried to be dutiful and attentive. I tried to do the things that would make it feel right. I tried to will myself into the parenting mold. But I didn’t believe.

My oldest daughter came at the end of a long labor. After days of waiting, when the doctor asked if I wanted to cut the umbilical cord my hands were shaking so hard I doubted my ability to accomplish that simple task. When my daughter began to cry, I spoke her name and she stopped.

That changed everything for me. I still don’t like children; I love them — especially my own. What would I do for them? We find out every day. Can they tell? I hope so.

How do other fathers show their love for their daughters? How do daughters show their love for their fathers?