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“I am not young enough to know everything.” — Oscar Wilde
“Dad,” my daughter Robin asked one evening. “What does facetious mean?”
I paused—a rare teaching moment.
“It’s when you make a statement that is so opposite of what you really think that it becomes funny. Like you telling me that cleaning your room is your favorite activity.”
She greeted my wisdom with a blank stare.
This was years ago when Robin started driving , a time when my earnest efforts to instruct her on the care of an automobile were filtered through the lenses of her teenage worldview and the far more pressing demands of her social calendar.
“I’m home, Dad,” she called one afternoon. “But I’ve got a small problem.”
My precious daughter had already taught me that “small problem” does not have the same dictionary definition as it does in the teenage lexicon. In adolescent-speak, “small problem” means: “Dad, sit down ... bring your checkbook.”
“Define small problem.” “I had a little bit of a flat tire on my car.”
I blinked. “How, precisely, does one have a little bit of a flat tire?”
“I probably need you to come help,” she admitted.
After arriving, I stared at the shredded remnants of what had once been a perfectly good piece of vulcanized rubber.
I asked, “Where did this little bit of a flat occur?”
“I don’t know,” she replied. “The car drove funny all the way home.”
“All the way home?” I repeated. “Did it occur to you to pull over and inspect the vehicle? Change the tire, maybe drive to a nearby service station for assistance?”
“No,” she said. “I was expecting some calls. I had to get home.”
“Does it make any difference,” I countered, “that driving on a flat could ruin the rim? Or, worse, risk losing control of the vehicle and endangering your life?”
“I told you, Dad,” she said as though I had lost my hearing. “I was expecting important calls.”
Fast forward a few months. Same song, second verse. Robin walks into the living room and nonchalantly announces, “My car is making a funny noise.”
“Define funny noise.” “A rattling sound—usually when the motor is running.”
“Take it by the dealership tomorrow after school,” I instructed. “Let them look at it.”
“The motor is shot?” I exclaimed later to the shop manager. “Well, thank goodness I bought that extended warranty.”
“Yeah, about that,” the manager replied. “To honor any claims for engine damages, the warranty requires receipt copies for all routine oil changes.”
That evening at dinner, I asked. “Robin, why is the shop telling me there is no record of oil changes for your car? Considering how I sent you there numerous times?”
She smiled, “Dad, I know you told me, but the little oil light on the dashboard never came on. And I didn’t want to waste your hard-earned money on something the car didn’t need yet.”
Struggling to breathe, I continued. “Robin, you don’t wait for the light. When the oil light comes on, the engine is already dead.”
“Oh,” she murmured. “I thought it was just a friendly reminder to check the oil.”
“You know, Robin,” I said, “I’m just now learning about incredible new things in the auto industry. Tires with inner linings allowing one to drive without worrying about a flat. Synthetic oils needing fewer changes. New stuff to me, but I’m learning that my daughter knew about these motoring miracles long ago.”
Silence fell over the dining room.
Robin smiled. “Dad— you’re being facetious — right?
