I Owe You
Jeff Dunn-Rankin
January 1, 1996
My boy Matthew just turned two. In a mostly unprompted display of affection, he pats my cheeks and says, "I uh you, Daddy." His mom says that means "I love you." To me, it sounds more like "I owe you." I can think of a thousand reasons why the boy owes me, and most of them are diapers. Billy Swanson told me not to worry. He said your own baby's poop doesn't stink. Billy Swanson is a liar. People tell you a kid will change your life, so it shouldn't be a surprise. Somehow it is, though. He's always there. Always. Once in a while-please forgive me-I hide in the bedroom. I lie down on the bed and close my eyes, trying to decide which of my many jobs to do first: bills, the yard, laundry, church work, newspaper work. I contemplate cleaning up our cluttered living room, which is starting to look more like a flea market. It's all important, and it all has to be done now. Then I hear a knock, knock, knock on the door. "Knock, knock, knock," Matthew sings, just in case I didn't hear the door talking. I pretend I'm not there. "Come in," he tells himself, as he turns the knob. He walks over to my bed, props his chin on the mattress and grins. "Daddy, get up." "Hi, Matthew." I flop an arm in his general direction and touch his elbow. "Daddy's taking a break right now."
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