I Am the Chickenpox of Fathers

There was a time, way back, when catching the virus that causes chickenpox was a childhood right of passage.

Case in point: In 1985, as I lay covered with fluid-filled blisters, neighborhood moms sent their kids over to chat, hoping that I would share the love.

As the story went, getting the chickenpox as a kid was the way to go, since infection during adulthood could be more severe and fraught with complications.

Of course, even those who had the good fortune of contracting the virus in childhood could see the dormant virus reactivate later in life—for instance, under stressful circumstances—in the form of shingles, a painful rash that can leave discomfort long after the rash is gone.

All of this, of course, is slowly becoming less relevant since the introduction of the varicella (chickenpox) vaccine in 1995. An entire generation has been able to bypass the right of passage and, as a result, will be much less likely to get shingles.

It turns out, however, that relevance is relative, because on October 19, 2024, I discovered the unexpected: I am the chickenpox of fathers.

The day started with a simple phone call from my wife.

“I hurt myself playing tennis,” she said.

The next thing I knew, she was back home with a splint and crutches. After she not-so-gracefully managed the two stairs into the house, she slowly made her way to the couch.

And there, at that moment, I felt a towering wave of stress.

You see, ever since my sperm donation, my utility around the household had declined precipitously. In fact, much like the varicella vaccine removed the need to tolerate chickenpox, I often wondered whether a sperm bank would have allowed the family to remove the need to tolerate me.

It’s not that I was always so useless.

As an adolescent, I mowed the lawn regularly, and I was a key contributor to yearly leaf removal. I even had a job at a local tennis club taking out the trash, cleaning the bathrooms, and generally being helpful.

As a young adult, prior to discovering the joys of the value meal, I dabbled in cooking, establishing a small but serviceable repertoire of dishes.

But after having been infected with this desire to be of use, those skills went dormant.

I replaced mowing the lawn with writing a check (actually, I asked my wife to write the checks).

I replaced cleaning the bathrooms with sitting on the couch.

And worst of all, I replaced cooking with…blogging.

It was an almost-two-decade run of inutility—the word deadbeat comes to mind.

But on October 19, 2024, as I stared helplessly at the splint, there was a sudden reactivation.

“Make a list!” I barked at my daughter, knowing that a trip to the grocery store was an inevitability.

“Not too long,” I added. “I get uncomfortable when I’m in that place for longer than ten minutes.”

“Why is this here?!” I yelled to no one in particular.

“Dude, you need to empty the dishwasher,” I hinted, perhaps not so subtly, to my son.

“We need to do a better job of staying on top of the dishes.”

“Where the heck is the pasta?!”

“These tortillas are expired. What a waste.”

“You need to get your junk off the table.”

“I don’t understand why you can’t just buy the school lunch.”

“Why do you guys have so many shoes?!”

—

It’s October 23, 2024, and no one has starved.

The house, I must say, looks fantastic.

I am, after all, the chickenpox of fathers.

And as my kids will attest, the pain of shingles is real.