Sorry About That

“Hey dad, what’s going on?”

I talk to my dad once or twice a week, so I wasn’t surprised in the least that he was calling. It was the tone in his voice that caught me off guard.

“Alright, boy, where is it?”

“Sorry, dad, what’d you say?”

“Where’s it at? It’s not funny.”

“Dad, you’re going to have to fill me in here. I don’t guess I know what you’re talking about.”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about, boy. And don’t deny it. The dirty diaper. Where’s it at?”

“Wait a second, dad. Did you say something about a dirty diaper?”

“Yes. I know you hid one when you were here last weekend, and it’s got the whole house stinking. We’ve turned the place upside down, and we can’t find it anywhere. Now, tell me. Where is it?”

My wife and I had run down to my parents’ house for supper with our two young daughters one Saturday in late August. We’d thought we’d spend Labor Day weekend at their place, but they had already made plans to go see my MaMaw in southwest Oklahoma. I’m sure my mom would much rather have spent her holiday weekend loving on her grandbabies than sweating in sweltering, southwest Oklahoma, but for years my dad and his oldest friend, Jimmy McGee, had gotten together every Labor Day weekend for the first dove hunt of the season.

“Dad, if we did leave a diaper there, I can promise you we didn’t do it on purpose.”

I was telling the truth, too, but by the way my dad abruptly ended the phone call, it was pretty clear that he didn’t believe me.

Days passed. Weeks went by. I talked to my dad on the phone another time or two, but he was still somewhat short with me. I didn’t know how I was ever going to convince him that if I had left a diaper at his house, it was entirely accidental. Then mom called.

“Hi momma, how are you?”

“Hey, baby, I’m good. Hang on. Your dad has something to tell you.”

I steeled myself for another one of dad’s lectures.

“Hey son, you probably don’t remember this, but a few weeks back I called you and said something about you leaving a dirty diaper at our house.”

“Uh, yeah, dad, I do remember that.”

“Well, it’s not a big deal, certainly not as big a deal as your momma’s made it out to be, but I guess I owe you an apology. You know I went dove hunting with Jimmy McGee over Labor Day weekend, right? Well, I hadn’t cleaned my shotgun since we got home and when I went to get it out of the safe in my hunting closet this morning, I figured out where that smell was coming from. Turns out, I guess I’d left a dead dove in my vest pocket. So, uh, sorry about that.”

It’s been over a decade since I last had a kid in diapers, but to this day, I don’t know what’s worse – having my dad blame me for something I didn’t do or having my dad believe that one of his sweet little granddaughters could produce a stench so foul that it rivaled that of a decaying dove carcass.