Being a home dad has its advantages. I watch TV while I work, I listen to the stereo real loud, and there are sandwiches and beer. The downside is the long-suffered horror all moms have shared through the ages: there are no secrets.
You go through everyone’s drawers. You wash their clothes. You sweep under their bed. You fold their underwear.
You fold your daughter’s thong.
You fold your daughter’s — AAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!
Look, I’m a ninja-level pop. I will go into Walgreens and loudly inquire as to the location of the heavy flow pads. Long ago, I suffered through the horror of my daughter’s emergent boobs. These days I’ll look right at them, up to my elbows in sink water, and tell her she’s not leaving the house until she’s dressed less like a transvestite and more like a nun. But a thong in the laundry is a new horror.
My first impression was “oooh, la la — go mom!” Mere seconds later I realized my voluptuous wife couldn’t get this minuscule strap around her foot, much less up to her OH MY GOD! My second impression was OH MY GOD!
Unlike a bra, which, no matter how much black lace or pink ribbons it has, is still structurally important, a thong has no practical use except as a way to say to the world, “I am legally not naked,” which only happens in situations where someone else is OH MY GOD!
We dads can work our minds around most daughter stuff. We plan ahead for puberty (beer), driving lessons (beer), and boyfriends (show the kid your study wall: deer head, deer head, space, deer head. Point to the empty space. I’m saving that one for the first guy who breaks her heart).
But we forget our little princesses are exploding out of puberty into an unparalleled womanhood. Never in the history of man have women been so unfettered and free. They are the fortunate great grandchildren of women’s rights. They don’t know why Mr. Mom is ironic. They grew up in a world of equality, highly paid women CEOs, Oprah, and porn for girls. When I was her age, a thong was porn. For my daughter, a thong is just a thing.
Thank God for my golf skills. Using a seven iron (yes, a seven iron; clearly a nine iron would slice them off into the heating vent), I carried my daughter’s thong upstairs toward her room, like a dead rat on a skewer.
I was halfway across the living room when she walked in.
At this juncture, the highly educated father would employ a sports maneuver that snatched the panties out of sight before either of us needed to acknowledge them.
Most.
“You dropped your floss.”
“Father, why are you hoisting my unmentionables into the air like a flag?”
“I’m surrendering.”
