The Sunday Musician

I have five daughters, ranging in age from 21 to 30. The following recollection was written about ten years ago, but the incident it describes happened probably in ’87 or ’88. The epilogue at the end is, of course, long outdated, but I’m leaving it in anyway. I know the piece runs a little long, and that most of you come here on your coffee breaks, but I tried to split it up and it lost too much momentum. You can always come back tomorrow or Friday and finish it up.

The Doughnut Incident

I don’t remember the exact circumstances, but I do remember wanting to just sit in my chair and relax. I think it was a Saturday morning. My wife was gone somewhere and I was in charge of our three oldest daughters, ages 9, 7, and 5. They played well together at that age, and I was looking forward to a little reading, a little napping, etc. In order to cover their nutritional needs I had done what any Dobson-reading father would have done—I bought a dozen doughnuts. Big variety, sure to please.

(A little side note: Men, don’t you dare express dismay at my food choice—you’ve all done it, every single one of you. And ladies, even if you think he hasn’t, your husband has done this. More than once.)

So I’m kicking back in the chair, remote in hand, stack of reading material. Blanket within arm’s reach in case a nap presents itself.

In walks my first-born. “Dad, what’s there to eat?’” Pleased with myself, I tell her that there are doughnuts on the counter. She squeals appropriately, and runs off. In short order all three of them are digging in. “How many can we have?” comes the inevitable question. Knowing I’ll cave in eventually, and hoping to ward off future interruptions, I say “two”.

Five minutes pass, and Lindsay, 9, comes into the room.

“Dad?”

I put the book down.

“It’s not fair – Steph and Carolyn each got two donuts, but I only got one. It’s not fair.”

Ever so slightly perplexed, I suggest she take another one.

“I can’t”, she answers. “There aren’t any I like. It’s not fair—they got two and I only got one.”

I point out that it’s not MY fault she’s picky, but that doesn’t get me very far. She’s begun her mantra, the common war cry of the young (and not so young) child, accompanied by a slight bouncing at the knees. “It’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair…”.

I ask how she’d like me to solve this. She suggests a chocolate chip cookie from the jar. (They had asked earlier, but I set the cookies off-limits.) I think about it, and end up capitulating. I figure the other girls won’t even know. I’m so wrong.

Stephanie comes in, righteous indignation in full bloom.

“Dad! Lindsay had a cookie!”

I explain that it was to replace the donut Lindsay couldn’t eat. Steph plows ahead without acknowledging my explanation.

“You SAID we couldn’t have any cookies!”

“Yeah”, I say, my position weakening, “But Lindsay couldn’t find a donut she liked.”

“THAT’S NOT MY FAULT!,” she replies, showing signs of becoming a successful trial lawyer. “I only ate two donuts because you said we couldn’t have any cookies! I would have traded a donut for a cookie too, if I’d known!” I cringe, seeing it coming but unable to duck in time: “IT’S NOT FAIR!!!”

I look at my book. I look at Stephanie. A tear forms in the corner of her eye. The little actress. Okay, I say, you can have a cookie. She runs off.

I pick up the book and immediately put it down again to deal with the defense’s redirect.

“Dad, it’s not fair! Stephanie had a cookie!! It’s not fair!”

I point out that she, Lindsay, had one too. “Yeah, but Steph got TWO donuts, AND a cookie. I only got ONE donut and a cookie.” I wince in anticipation. “IT’S NOT FAIR!” It’s like trying to hang onto melting ice. I’m not sure where this is going anymore. Knowing I shouldn’t, but unable to come up with an option, I ask Lindsay if one more cookie would even things out. She answers yes over her shoulder as she runs for the kitchen.

I put the book down and rub my eyes, resigning myself to the next few minutes. Confirming my conclusions about human nature, Stephanie makes her second entrance.

“Dad, Lindsay had TWO cookies!” I say the words along with her: “It’s not fair!”

We have now established precedent—a donut is worth two cookies.

For those of you keeping score at home:

Lindsay: one donut, two cookies.

Stephanie: two donuts, one cookie.

Score so far: Stephanie leads by one cookie, or half a donut.

I decide at this point to inject a little reason into the fray. I point out that fair, or unfair, they’ve both had plenty to eat. I also exercise a little parental authority—I tell them I don’t want to talk about it any more.

I send them away and close my eyes. All seems quiet. I keep my eyes closed for a few minutes, thinking calm thoughts, getting back into the mood for reading, napping, etc. Assuming myself to be alone again, I open my eyes. Standing at the arm of the chair is Carolyn, 5. No words of protest, no Johnny Cochran routine, just a tear sliding quietly down her cheek. She bravely controls her bottom lip, and meets my gaze unflinchingly.

I wait.

Finally, in a small voice, she says, “Dad, it’s not fair.”

And I agree. All I wanted was to be left alone to read. I could have made them eat Raisin Bran, but I bought donuts. Good donuts, with sprinkles and raspberry filling and chocolate. I open my mouth, trying weakly, pathetically, to control the situation. “Carolyn”, I begin, but am interrupted by the F. Lee Bailey twins, roaring in from the other room and talking over each other.

“DAD, NO! CAROLYN ALREADY HAD TWO DONUTS AND THEY WERE BOTH BIGGER THAN THE ONES WE HAD AND ONE OF STEPH’S COOKIES WAS REALLY BIG TOO, WITH A LOT OF CHOCOLATE CHIPS IN IT…”

I hold up my hand for silence. I know that the decision I’m about to hand down will echo for at least 10 more years, the repercussions lasting well into their driving and money-borrowing ages, but I’m beaten. Vanquished. Led off in chains to be paraded in front of the townspeople, no longer able to exercise my once-kingly authority. I don’t know what Dobson would say about this, but I’m 20,000 leagues from caring.

“Eat whatever you want”, I say, “Just leave me alone”.

Epilogue: Those little girls are now 21, 19, and 17. Only by God’s grace did they grow up and turn out okay, and two of them have moved away. The other night I’m lying in bed, drifting off to sleep, and I hear the front door open. Lindsay, my oldest, walks in and uses the bathroom. She works second shift, and is stopping in on the way to her apartment. She leans into the doorway of my bedroom. ‘Dad?,’ she whispers. I drift up to the surface and say hi, asking what she wants. ‘I have that five bucks I owe you.’ Great, I say. Leave it on the table. ‘Oh, right’, she says. ‘It’s in my car – I’ll go get it.’ She goes out, and is gone so long that I drift back to sleep. Then she’s back again. ‘Dad?’ Once more I drift up. ‘All’s I have are twenties’. I tell her she can owe me. ‘Oh, right.’ And she’s gone.