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"Don't take too long in there or there won't be any pancakes left for you!"

"There'd better be," I grumble back at him shaking a fist.

Dad and I each swing open our doors, his to the hallway, and mine to the bathroom at the same time. We each take a step through. Then I pause, and turn and say: "Dad?"

He pauses, turns, says: "yeah Sport?"

I sigh, bite my bottom lip a little. Gulp. Give him the once over before I ask. There he is: typical Dad. In typical form. Square jawed handsome broad-shouldered dude. His face covered in a light layer of stubble, that makes him look like a younger, bigger, handsomer Bruce Willis. Like Bruce Willis (or rather John McClane) Dad is a cop, which is about ten thousand times cooler then what mom is, (banker turned stay at home housewife,) and on top of all that he is a hero cop, who has received 3 medals for heroism for (1) shooting a couple of scum bag drug dealers in self defense, (2) for getting stabbed by a crazy homeless guy, and (3) for rescuing a crack baby from a burning building. It is for all of these reasons, that Dad is my moral compass, which is why I always get a little nervous when coming to him with questions of ethics in cases like this one, where I may already have crossed the line.

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