Being a stay-at-home dad has its advantages. I watch TV while I work. I listen to the stereo real loud. There is beer. The downside is the long suffered horror all moms know: There are no secrets.
You go through everyone’s drawers. You wash their clothes. You sweep under their bed.
You fold your daughter’s thong.
Look, I’m a ninja-level pop. I will go into Walgreens and inquire as to the location of the heavy flow pads. Long ago I suffered through the horror of my daughter’s emergent boobs.
But a thong in the laundry is a new horror.
My first impression was “oooh la la, Mommy for the win!” Mere seconds later I realized my voluptuous wife couldn’t get this miniscule 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, still is structurally important, a thong has no practical use except 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 (gun).
But we forget; our little princesses are exploding out of puberty into 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 grew up in a world of equality, highly paid women CEOs, Oprah and porn for girls.
Thank God for my golf skills. Using a seven iron, I carried my daughter’s thong upstairs, 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.
“You dropped your floss.”
“Father, why are you hoisting my unmentionables into the air like a flag?”