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Published on 9/11/2008

By Robbin Bruce

Do you remember the old Rodney Dangerfield line "I don't get no respect"? Well, lately it seems like he probably wrote it about me. Now don't get me wrong; it's just the little things. All of us, I guess, get that way, but it seems like it's just mostly the dads. Think about it: When the kids have a problem, who do they call? Sure, they will tell us when Momma can't come to the phone, but what do they say? "Hey, Daddy, how about tell Momma so and so." It's like we are just the secretary and we're just here to pass along messages or something.

Then there comes the inevitable "Do you want me to do it for you?" Then comes "That's all right, just tell Mom." Are they trying to give us a complex or something?

I know I'm not the only father out there who feels this way sometimes. Hey, I used to run heavy equipment, run crews at a sawmill, but I can't pick up something for them at Wal-Mart without a written set of instructions.

But it's the little stuff that gets to me, like they had me on a walker for awhile after my surgery. Instead of feeling some sympathy, what did I get? My youngest walking behind me singing the old "Rawhide" theme: "Rolling rolling rolling, keep them doggies rolling." Or if I was trying to pick something up off the floor, what did I hear? "You can do it!" Can't you just feel the love?

And while I'm on the subject of kids, guys, how many of your best T-shirts have disappeared lately? You know, the ones that are broken in just right -- kinda faded, kinda stretched. Guess what, Hoss? It's now part of your kid's pajamas. That hat it took you six months to break in? They're probably out there washing the car with it on. Your Docksiders? Well, they're soaking wet because the kids didn't want to mess up their shoes.

Then there's your chair, the only real thing you can call your own in the whole house. You've got it broken in just right for your own personal gluteus maximus, and every time you turn your back who's laid back in it with a blanket sound asleep? One of them kids. And they're looking so angelic you kinda don't want to move them. (I said "kinda" since you know that dog ain't gonna hunt.) Then comes the inevitable "but Daddy, I thought you loved me." I do ... just not that much.

Then it's the telephone -- all day long it's telemarketers. I'm on every Don't Call list known to man, but I still get them, especially those selling pie pans you hang in your yard to get TV with. Plain English doesn't work. What do I need to speak, Vulcan? "I don't want one" means I don't want one. And an hour later when they call back, what do they think? That I had a heart-to-heart with Doc and I changed my mind? When Daddy told me no, he meant no. Period. Maybe their Daddy never told them no or something so they don't understand the concept.

Then there's the cat, Daisy. She has nothing -- and I mean NOTHING -- to do with me. To her, I don't exist until she wants something. Lord forbid she run out of water or food, or her litterbox isn't just the way she likes it. She'll meet me getting out of the bed and won't quit until I figure out what she's mad about. Like I did it on purpose or something. And don't let me walk in while she's on the litterbox, 'cause my wife has never given me an evil eye like this cat can. I think she's telepathic or something because all I can hear between my ears is "Do you mind?"

Then there's my buddy Doc. Me and him have a system -- you don't bother me and I won't bother you. That is, until a roll of thunder, a truck passing by or even a leaf blowing in the wind. He feels like it is his sworn duty to let me know, me and the rest of the neighborhood.

You'd think that squirrel had an AK-47 pointed at the house or something and he was my last, best line of defense ... even if I'm sound asleep.

And then there's Mel. She loves me, takes care of me and is all the things a man could ask for. Never complains, never points out my faults.

Err, you didn't think I was crazy or something, did you?

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Mr. Bruce is an Andrews resident. His e-mail address is robbinbruce@yahoo.com, or he can be reached in care of this newspaper at P.O. Box 2778, Georgetown, SC 29442.