The fan.
The shoe rack.
Anything tall.
These are the three pillars of a father's last lesson to his children. These are the jobs fathers are called upon to handle during college move in. These are, in fact, the only times fathers are even mentioned during the final months at home.
As children begin their flight from the nest we want to stuff every ounce of common sense and life lesson into them from how to fix a running toilet, to what we mean by "after tax dollars." We hope to impart wisdom about goodness, hard work and how much money they would save if they didn't go to Starbucks every day.
But instead we are relegated to jobs deemed least "in the way."
The dorm hallway is littered with cardboard boxes, FedEx tags, empty food containers and sweating fathers, spread eagle trying to decipher the pictures on the instructions for the Seville Classics 3-Tier Resin Slat Utility Shoe Rack, espresso color. The instruction wording and odd arrow insertions would stump a WWII code breaker until we are rescued by a YouTube video that surreptitiously circulates among the men.
Regardless of whether it's the well-appointed Freshman dorm room.
conversations are the same.
"Mom, how does this picture look?"
"Mom, do I need to hang this dress/shirt/jacket?"
"Mom, did we pack (fill in the blank)?"
"Dad, did you pick up lunch yet?"
At the far end of a teeming dorm hallway I pass a lounge on my way to pick up bottles of water. A television hangs from the wall projecting a hunting show on the Outdoor Channel. Scattered, one seat apart, on the fading couches is a smattering of tired-looking dads examining their cell phones.
They nod as I pass, a knowing recognition of the purgatory to which we've been relegated.
We are not our father's father. We were a new generation of dad that left the office early to show up at the recital and the softball game, we coached the soccer team and cried at camp drop-off as we reached for the unattainable work/life balance. So when the child walks out that door for the final time we hope she sheds a tear for dear old dad, but she'll ask mom where they packed the Kleenex.
A few years back there was a series of articles about the "default" parent. As one article noted, the default parent usually has a uterus. So when my wife was on a trip to Russia last year I called the kids (texted) and asked them for this one week, to let me be the default parent. Let me be the one with the answers.
The questions started early the first morning:
"I'm out of money," my middle child texted.
"It's the 18th of the month, that's bad planning," I told her in a warm fatherly warning.
"I'm OUT OF MONEY," came the next exchange.
"I heard you the first time, you've got 12 days until next month's allowance comes."
"That's not the way it works."
"Huh?"
"When I run out of money mom sends me more."
"I'm in charge now."
"This is why we don't call you."
When I come back with the lunch orders I am doused in criticism that gluten-free means NO croutons, the dressing isn't on the side and "did you really get sushi from a food court?"
Amid the small talk with a neighbor in the hallway I ask the parents if they are coming back for homecoming. They go quiet. Later I hear the daughter whisper that her mother can't come that weekend so they didn't even bother telling the father.
But when they need height, "Can you put this suitcase on top of the closet" or brawn, "Can you open the package and take the boxes to the end of the hallway," I get the call.
It isn't so bad really, because I've learned, as we take this final child off to college, that it's better to get questions where I actually might have an answer rather than being peppered on topics where I have no expertise.
Because in fact I don't know where she packed her Sofi shorts, I don't know why the body pillow seems deflated and I don't know where to pick up the mailbox key.
I can, however, reach the top shelf, I know the difference between AA and AAA batteries and I hope to G-d that her fan doesn't come crashing down on her, because I have extra parts and the video didn't tell me where they go.
