There are a lot of things I didn’t expect fatherhood to teach me. For instance, the average couch cushion can conceal more snacks than a 7-Eleven. Or that toothpaste is apparently multipurpose—good for brushing teeth, hallway wall art, and hair styling gel if you’re really desperate.
But nothing—nothing—has prepared me for my children’s absolute dedication to chaos as a lifestyle.
Logan once led his siblings on a “covert mission” to raid the pantry for some kind of junk food, which ended when Kara came and tattled because they forgot to include her in the op the way she thought they should be including her. Slayden, for reasons only he and possibly God understand, tried to “eat” one of our ducks, while it was very much alive, but grabbing it by the neck and going for the jugular. And Moira? Well… Moira has her own brand of madness.
This last weekend, I was outside cleaning the workshop. The kind of sweaty, muttering-to-yourself job where you keep finding tools you forgot you owned. I had the garage wide open, broom in hand, and was actually making some progress when—BAM!
Out pops Moira.
Not through the door. Not by yelling my name. Oh no. She launched herself through the dog door. Like a feral jack-in-the-box in pigtails. She flung the flap open, grinned like a maniac, and shouted “BOO!” at a volume only toddlers and malfunctioning fire alarms can reach.
I nearly dropped a hammer on my foot.
I sent her back inside. She giggled. Thirty seconds later—BAM! Out she came again, shrieking with glee, this time hanging halfway through like she was auditioning for a horror film titled The Cursed Chihuahua Portal.
We repeated this cycle five, six, maybe seven times. Me, trying to sweep sawdust and an ever growing pile of “useful” things, in peace. Her, proving that stealth is less fun than giggling in your dad’s face every time he tells you to go back inside.
And honestly? I gave up.
Because at some point, you stop asking why and start admitting the truth: my kids don’t need doors. They’ve already demonstrated that dog doors are faster, funnier, and way more effective for surprise attacks. You realize that while yes, it is annoying, one day my little Moira will be 16 and slamming the door, and not cutely popping her head through the dog door, to “surprise me” for the 50th time in 12 minutes.
So the next time someone asks me why the front door is still locked but the toddler is already walking down the street chasing the ice cream truck with my wallet and a hammer, I’ll just point to this picture.
Hope today is a memorable on,
austininva
