Nothing would ever be the same again.


About six hours later, at 9:51 p.m., Abigail Helen Adams arrived. The nurses at Lancaster General Hospital were hoping she would be the New Year’s baby; I got my wish, a tax deduction.


She came into the world looking like all the other babies on my side of the family, cranky and contrary.


At an age when some of my friends were welcoming grandchildren, I was a father. (Yes, my wife is much younger.)


We often referred to Abigail as the “space alien.’’ It was as if she landed one day and enslaved us.


As a toddler, she battled not to sleep.


“No naps,’’ she would tell us defiantly.


She picked up a pacifier early and wouldn’t put it down. She called them bees, and we have no idea why. She usually had one in her mouth and a spare in her hand. We have an unposed picture of her, with one in her mouth and one in each hand.


Her Mom-Mom didn’t approve of the pacifier, so when Abby walked into her house, she took it out. What is this power that grandparents have?


Dog feared her


She was a toddler terror. The Great Dane was happy to sleep by the fireplace all day, not moving to venture outside, until Abigail came down in late mornings to pick on him. Then he couldn’t get out of the house fast enough. She loved to grab his collar and march him around, even though he was much taller.


She leads me around the same way. When it comes to drawing lines for Abby, my wife calls me a “marshmallow’’ and says the daughter has me wrapped around her little finger. Imagine.


Recently, her mother reminded her to practice the guitar. “Elvis’ mother didn’t have to tell him to practice,’’ I said.


“That’s because she didn’t want to hear him either,’’ Abigail replied.


After Christmas dinner this year, she played for us, and as family members raised cameras, she told them: “Please, no flash photography.’’


Now catching ...


A tomboy who is usually seen with a baseball cap pulled low over her eyes, even at dinner, she plays baseball.


With her hair stuffed up under her hat, she looks like a boy, much to her mother’s chagrin. Unknowing Little League umpires call her “Bud’’ when she’s behind the plate.


But now, our little tomboy is becoming what my wife calls a “girlie girl.’’


Although her favorite attire still runs to Phillies, Pirates or Steelers shirts (and any T-shirt she can confiscate from me), she’s suddenly interested in things like lip gloss, fingernail polish and Jesse McCartney love songs.


She even occasionally likes to wear — gasp! — skirts and dresses.


“I need hips,’’ she told me, as one skirt proved difficult to keep in place.


I’m mortified.


When a Christmas dress arrived from her Pittsburgh grandmother, I asked: “Did it come with a matching Pirates cap?”


“Don’t be preposterous, Dad,’’ she scolded.


I tell her that painted fingernails will help the pitcher see the signs better when she puts down fingers.


“Dadddddddddddddd!’’ Yes, things have never been the same for us.


And we wouldn’t change a thing.


Happy 11th birthday, Abigail, and Happy New Year.


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Marv Adams invites questions. Send them by e-mail to madams@lnpnews.com or mail to: Sunday News, P.O. Box 1328, Lancaster, Pa. 17608-1328.