“He’s hot!” These are the words that hit me harder in the gut than a Mike Tyson roundhouse hook. These are the words that ripped my heart from my chest and delivered it back in worse condition than a box of delicate crystal bounced around in the back of a U.S. postal truck for a few hundred miles.

My ten–year–old daughter said those words recently, and her 12–year–old sister was quick to agree. I’m not sure who they were talking about, but I know it wasn’t the devil in the fiery pits of Hell. Even if it wasn’t Mr. Mephistopholes, some evil is creeping through the innocence that once wrapped itself around my little girls like a pink feather boa.

I know it’s a completely natural (and still innocent) transformation that boys are beginning to morph from disgusting, annoying life forms somewhere on the order of slimy slugs to “hot” in the eyes of my girls, but that doesn’t make it any easier on me. My girls should think all boys are worse than chicken pox…at least until they’re 35. By then, I should be able to adjust to the fact I’m no longer the most wanted man at their tea parties.

Unfortunately, I spent the better part of their younger years complaining about the feather boas, ballet shoes, and just about anything pink, but now I’d much rather arabesque around the living room with my daughters, than overhear them talking about the cute boys at school. I’d rather don a tutu myself, pretend I’m the Little Mermaid, and sip gallons of imaginary tea with Barbie, than hear any expression of affection for the opposite sex from my little girls again.

And, yet, I’m pretty powerless to stop it.

Boys are starting to call my house, and, unfortunately, they’re not calling to talk football with me or my six–year–old son. Sure, they’re just asking about homework assignments and school projects now, but it’s only a matter of time before one of those little bundles of hormones decides to broaden the conversation. Today, they’re talking about the Civil War, and tomorrow they’re picking China patterns. Pretty soon Dear Ol’ Dad goes from hero to hindrance, and I’m simply not ready for that demotion.

As is usually the case in such matters, my wife is absolutely no help. I would very much like to bury my head in the sand or cover my ears and scream “La–la–la–la!” every time the mere mention of boys comes up at the dinner table. It’s called “blissful” ignorance for a reason. But my wife has some insane logic that if she talks about such things with our daughters now, they’ll keep talking to her about it later in life…when it gets really serious.

I don’t know how much more seriousness I can take, but I will get my wife back when our son finally realizes girls are much better than Matchbox cars. We’ll just see how logical she is when her precious little boy blows her off for some blonde in the fourth grade. Then she can finally join me in my panic.