Overheard in Minneapolis

“One time I went really high to buy my dad a birthday present and ended up getting him a really sweet toilet seat.”

***

Being a dad can suck.

Eventually you’re going to be running around in shorts and white socks and tennis shoes, cheap sunglasses and some sort of tool in your hand.

You will have to wear baseball caps that say “World’s Greatest Dad” from your kids, or “Eat at Hyman’s” from your father-in-law (don’t ask),

and your khakis will have pleats down the front, as if they draw attention

away from your mysteriously rounding belly.

And all those years you live with teenagers who think your white socks are as hilarious as your sparse hair and rules about the car,

who come downstairs at noon on your birthday, hungover, and smirk a little guiltily

when they hand you the toilet seat they bought for you.

47 fucking years old and you have a toilet seat there, white and padded,

like the big joke middle age proves to be: the ridiculously not young time

before you’re old. You remember the time your mom ate the pot brownies

you left on the counter—how happy she was that night—and you remember

this kid as a newborn, all head and wail, how much promise you saw that morning.

He can’t decide if he feels bad about the toilet seat or not. Your wife glares at him.

You hold it to the light, admire the padding, and then sit down on it,

right in the middle of the living room floor. Pretty comfy, you say. Yeah,

a guy could get spoiled.