My father was given to bouts of hyperbole; it was never "a nice day," but 'tis a glorious wonder of beauty and sunshine. The people he dealt with as a cop were not merely "stupid" they were fookin' idjits headed for shite and Satan. His way with words naturally drew people in, to listen carefully so that they didn't miss the meaning hidden behind the lilt of his brogue.

The first time he held baby Alex, even though he had five other grandkids, he was quiet and looked at his grandson for a long time before he offered, You will never do anything more important than this. It was a moment as gentle as he ever could be, but as he handed Alex back to his mother, my father looked right at me and said, Don't you be fockin' him up, now.

I worried about just that when Alex was a baby; I'd babysat my niece and nephews, changed diapers and dodged spit-up, but I'd never been a father and never responsible for the most important thing I would ever do. Still, in the back of my head I knew that as he grew up, I would at least have the experiences of having been his age to draw from; I knew some of what he was facing and feeling, and could identify with it. I intended to teach him the things my father taught me, some of it seemingly archaic, some of it common sense.

Then seventeen months later came the daughter I had always wanted, and my father's advice was the same: Jaysus, don't you fock this one up, boy.

With Alex he had been mostly kidding; with Rachel he was not.

She went with me to the bookstore this afternoon; Kevin wanted a couple of new books, and because he couldn't go pick them out himself, I went looking. Rachel came with me because, as she put it, It can't be more boring than staying home.

I cut her loose once we were there; I knew where in the store she would be and I wasn't that far away from her. She has common sense on her side and can scream at an ear-splitting decibel if she needs to. Browsing books without Dad breathing down her neck seemed safe, and was only fair. I wandered around the kids-but-not-kids section and she headed for what I thought was young adult teenage pseudo-romance wrapped in vampire lore. I don't grasp the entire sparkling vampire thing, but she's been "dying" to read the books, and now that she's pushing thirteen, Char said she could buy the books.

I picked out two books that were recommended for Kevin and went looking for my daughter, but she was nowhere near the overblown Brooding Edward display. Neither was she picking through the starter-romance books I guessed she might be browsing. I wandered through the store, and found her in science fiction, leaning against a bookcase, giggling and flirting horribly with some gangly, squeaky, hormonal teenaged boy. It wasn't enough that she was actually giggling, she was farking batting her eyes at him, and my first thought was to grab the greaseball by his shirt collar and tell him to get the hell away from my daughter.

Jaysus, don't you fock this one up, boy.

I may not be able to crawl inside my daughter's head, but I could sure as hell crawl inside this kid's and I knew something he didn't: she's just practicing. He thinks she's interested; she just wants to see how he's going to react. She knew I was nearby, so flirting with him was safe, and if he didn't respond, oh well. Dad is easy and I can at least talk him into ice cream or something.

I left the hornball alone and spoke only to Rachel. Five minutes, Half Pint. I'll be in the cafe.

Fifteen minutes later (to my credit I did not make an issue out of that) she met me in the cafe, carrying thick book. I wanted like hell to grill her about the kid, but I managed to keep it to his name and where she knew him from (holy hell, she'd never met him before) and then asked her about the book she wanted to get. Yes, it was Twilight. Surprisingly, she only wanted to get the first one in case it "sucked."

On the way out she told me that I might want to read it, too, because Kevin wants to and someone should make sure it's appropriate for him.

So my 10 year old son wants to read vampire romance.

I can hear my dad now. For the love of God, son, don't you dare fock this up.

Sooner or later I'm bound to really screw something up with one of the kids; if it turns out to be one of the boys, I have confidence that I can fix it. But if my first real fuck up is with my daughter, I'm not as sure.

It's coming, too, I can feel it.

Kevin wanting to read about a sparkling vampire pedophile won't be it; he is what he is, even if no one is sure what that is yet. Alex and I butting heads too hard, might be it. But my daughter? That might break my heart worse than hers.