I’m told that being the father of three daughters has many pluses. And I guess the fact that I haven’t stumbled upon any doesn’t mean it’s not true. After all, I’m old, and in the words of my 10 year old, “You just don’t know anything.” And what you don’t know can, and will, hurt you.

The other day, I was operating in my “state of unknowing” when I discovered that the DaughterHood was more vast and more powerful than I could have ever imagined. I was leaving a phone message for someone and, for some reason, I gave the wrong return number.

Inasmuch as it’s the same number I’ve been using for 30 years it was a little aggravating, but I didn’t see the need to rush to the Emergency Room for a brain scan. Instead, I redialed the number to correct my mistake. In the midst of same, someone broke in on the line. 

“Hello, I’m Smith with the Psychological Monitoring Association, and we’ve been monitoring you phone calls today to measure for externally caused brain damage. We need to ask you a few questions.”

I was stunned to say the least. “Wait a minute, what do you mean that you’re monitoring my phone calls. You don’t have any right to do that.”

“This is Phillip Sartain, isn’t it?,” Smith asked.

“Well, yeah, but … . ”

“And you have three daughters between the ages of 10 and 14?”

I started to get a little heated, “That’s really none of your business.”

“Well,” Smith said, “it really is. Based on the number and ages of your daughters, you are showing clear and convincing evidence of externally caused brain damage. We were first notified last year that you ‘didn’t know anything’ by an anonymous daughter tip, and under Section 44, Part C of the Articles of DaughterHood, we’ve been monitoring your activities since then.”

When he said that, I got to thinking that that there really was more to the stupid phone bill than I could figure out. At that point, it occurred to me that there might be some basis for the notion that I didn’t know anything. But I quickly gathered my remaining dignity. “I don’t care what that stupid article says, you don’t have a … .”

“Well, Mr. Sartain, all the studies prove definitively that having three daughters places you in the Stage Three Category of Hopeless Father Syndrome. It’s not reversible at all and for that reason, we have to keep a close watch.”

That really caught me off guard. “Stage Three, huh? Is it dangerous for me to make decisions on my own and stuff?”

“Without a doubt,” Smith patiently explained, “That’s why we use Global Positioning Satellites to monitor the whereabouts of all hopeless stooges such as yourself. With that mistake on the phone number just now, it’s clear that you don’t need to be making any of your own decisions.”

“So what are you saying?” I nervously queried.

“From here on out, all your decisions will be made by your daughters – clothes, diet, vacations, everything.”

“And if I’d had boys instead?”

“You’d still be The Man. You’d be in charge of everything. So do you have any questions?”

After we finished our conversation, I was resigned to my fate. Still, I was bothered by the fact that the whole thing blew up over a lousy phone number. And I don’t even know who I was calling in the first place.   

I was still kicking myself when I got a call from my youngest daughter. “You have to come home now. We have to go shopping.”

I did as I was told. Who knows what the DaughterHood would do if I was late. I don’t even want to know what Stage Four of Hopeless Father Syndrome means.