We’re all familiar with the term wet blanket, and we probably all know that one person that might fit the bill. Hell, I’m sure that describes me most of the time as we’re browsing the toy department at Target on a football-less Sunday afternoon.
But what about a moist towel. It’s past damp, but a few levels away from sopping. It’s also kind of cold. And crumbled in a ball in the corner of the bathroom along with a broken crayon and dirty Q-tip no one’s dared to pick up in a week.
And it’s the only one left.
That’s being a dad. Especially to four strong women (three of which don’t add up to a high school freshman). Especially in this house.
I’m usually the last one to wash off the day or, in my 1-year-old's case, the hair broccoli she accrued throughout dinner. It should be an enjoyable self-care moment, but I know what I’m walking into. The kids take over our bathroom like they’re rockstars at a Holiday Inn. Every light is on, every faucet is flowing. Their dirty clothes, discarded Disney costumes, ill-fitting jewelry all scattered along the floor. There are odd, large water puddles throughout the scene, which I deftly try to avoid on the deadly skating rink tile.
Bath toys are everywhere, and regular toys fill the tub. I pull a sad looking furry bunny out of the scrum, knowing full well his damnation to the dryer. The floor mats, really only having one job in life, are also dredged in water, seemingly causing more problems for this hopscotch from hell. I close my eyes, turn the water on and hop in the shower, hoping it’s all just my imagination.
After realizing I can’t spend more than two hours in this warm, blissful moment under the gentle silence of showerhead, I jump out and scan the empty racks. Nothing on the hooks. I open all the cabinets that are clearly not large enough for towels, but who knows! Then I see it across the way. Only one option. Or I can run across the house naked, which is less than ideal.
And it’s exactly how you suspect it would feel. Heavy, frigid, nonabsorbent and pretty damn moist. It’s the last choice, the dregs, the short straw, the rock that lost to paper, the only guy that gave his ID to the cops when you were caught partying at 16 while sneaking beers and listening to the Smashing Pumpkins. I awkwardly skip-hop to my closet, grabbing any semblance of dry fabric. And for the rest of the night, I am now damp because of the dreaded moist towel.
Does anyone in the house care? Do they empathize with my frustration? Do they ever say, ‘Dad, we’ll save a warm, dry towel for you!?’
No. The answer is no. Like the last kid picked for dodgeball, I’m a seat filler and last in line. Sometimes even, when my wife gets frustrated with the older girls, she will actually threaten them with dad time—"Stop fighting! Or dad will be the one to read to you tonight!” “Ahhhh!,” they scream in horror all because the few times I skipped some pages exposing some major plot holes in their favorite bedtime stories.
Alas, I’m still here. And while I’m pretty sure a group of friends built on this premise wouldn’t work either, being a dad makes it different. I’m cool with my status, uncool and invisible at times. I know mommy is, and always will be, the best. Because she’s mom. My “dinner” is sometimes their remaining three-and-a-half chicken nuggets plus the leftover macaroni and cheese in the pot.
After a few years of being a dad, I realized 90% of parenting is just showing up. You won’t always get to be the movie star with the glam trailer, always at the center of attention. And for those who have the (mis)fortune of knowing me, that’s a hard part to play for this guy. So I complain a little. Then a lot. I try to instill life lessons, going through the steps on properly folding and reracking the towels with a lovely visual tutorial. But they’re not listening, and that’s cool, too.
I hope I have many more decades of the most amazing and crazy and scary job on earth, and I’m sure I’ll get used to this casting. I’ll take one for the team, sing backup, and be the understudy. I’ll take the last bite of your soggy ice cream cone, help pick up the pieces, and, yeah, I guess I’ll use the moist towel.