Just Call Him a Dad

I opened the bathroom door to find my husband sitting on the side of the bed.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Oh, just being a dad,” he replied.

“What do you mean ‘just being a dad’?”

“I’m waiting my turn.”

“Waiting your turn for what? What are you talking about?”

“I’m waiting my turn to use a bathroom. All of them were occupied.”

“Okay, I get that, but what does that have to do with being a dad?”

“Well, it works like this: as a dad, you get to buy and own lots of stuff that you either never get to use, or you can use it only after you wait your turn, which could take anywhere from a few minutes to several hours, days, or even months.”

“Oh come on. Just because you couldn’t get into a bathroom doesn’t mean it’s an indication of modern day fatherhood. That’s a little extreme, don’t you think?”

“Let’s examine my theory. I think I’ll manage to prove my point beyond a shadow of a doubt.”

“Go for it.”

“Let’s use the bathroom incident as exhibit A. If you need another example in this category, do you recall that we were supposed to meet the Taylors for dinner last night?”

“Yes, counselor, we were.”

“And do you recall that we had to call them to tell them we would be late?”

“Agreed.”

“And just why were we late?”

“Because you couldn’t get into the bathroom to take a shower. Fine, I’ll accept the bathroom example, but that still doesn’t prove anything.”

“I’ve only begun to fight. Let me redirect your attention to earlier today.”

“Okay.”

“What was going on around here this morning?”

“David was going to work, Laura was meeting some friends, Meg wanted to go shopping and I had some errands to run.”

“And me?”

“You were supposed to meet a client.”

“Do you recall my question to you upon hearing of everyone else’s plans?”

I sighed. “Yes, you asked me if you could have a car.”

“Precisely. And although I eventually was able to use one of my own cars, it was not without the requisite wailing and gnashing of teeth until we ironed out everyone’s plans.”

“I’ll admit that I’m sensing a bit of a pattern here, but I’m still not thoroughly convinced.”

“Oh, I’m not finished. Do you know that thing on which you write that pseudo-factual newspaper column of yours?”

“Yes, dear. My laptop computer, which you very kindly and lovingly gifted me with several Christmases ago. I remain eternally grateful.”

“Yeah. Don’t think I haven’t second-guessed myself for that one. Anyway, exactly how many computers do we own?”

“There’s mine, and we had to get one each for David and Laura for college, and you bought another laptop when the home computer Meg was using here died last year.”

“Correct. Now just rerun that in your mind for a second and tell me, whose name is missing on that list?”

“Yours.”

“Right. Not only do I not have my own computer here, but I have to ask Meg every night if she can stop talking to her friends long enough for me to squeeze in a half hour of use for myself, especially since you won’t let anyone touch yours. Do you need to hear more?”

You win. You have successfully proven that dad is buyer of all with rights to nothing.”

Just then Laura ran past us into the bathroom, closing the door. “I need to get a shower. Meg’s in the other bathroom.”

Dave settled back on the bed.

“Like I said, I’m just being a dad.”