Thermostat Wars: A Dad’s Last Stand

It’s that time of year again. The leaves are turning. The mornings are crisp. And somewhere in America, a dad is standing in his hallway at 2 a.m., in his underwear, staring at a thermostat that’s been bumped up two degrees, whispering, “Who did this?”

That dad is me. Every dad is me. And we are tired.

The thermostat is not a toy

I want to make something very clear to everyone living under my roof. The thermostat is not a suggestion box. It’s not a democracy. It’s not a fidget toy. It is a carefully calibrated financial instrument, set by the man who opens the energy bill.

When you touch that thermostat, you’re not adjusting the temperature. You’re adjusting my blood pressure.

The excuses I’ve heard

• “I was cold.” Then put on a sweatshirt. We own forty-two sweatshirts. I’ve counted. They’re in every drawer, every closet, and one is, for some reason, in the dog’s bed.
• “It’s freezing in here.” It’s 68. People in other countries live in igloos. You’ll survive.
• “I didn’t touch it.” The thermostat didn’t change itself, Kyle. This isn’t a haunted house. Unless it is, in which case, the ghost needs to put on a sweatshirt too.
• “Mom said I could.” Ah. The appeal to a higher court. We’ll be discussing this at the next family meeting. She’ll win. She always wins. But it’ll be on the record.

Warning: the smart thermostat

A few years ago, I got a smart thermostat. I thought it would end the war. I thought, “Now I can control it from my phone, and nobody can stop me.”

I was wrong. The smart thermostat just gave everybody else a remote control too. Now I’m sitting at work, getting a notification that someone at home turned it up to 74. SEVENTY-FOUR. In October. Like we’re growing tomatoes in the living room. I turn it back down from my desk. Ten minutes later, it goes back up. It’s a hostage negotiation over Wi-Fi.

My wife says the thermostat “learns our patterns.” It’s learning nothing. It’s caught in the crossfire like everybody else.

The Dad Temperature Scale

• 64: Character-building. Put on socks.
• 66: Brisk. Good for sleeping. Doctors probably recommend it. (I don’t know, I’m not a doctor. I’m a dad.)
• 68: Perfection. The temperature God intended. The Garden of Eden was 68 degrees.
• 70: Indulgent. We’re not made of money.
• 72: Is this a sauna? Am I paying for a sauna?
• 74 and above: Who do you think you are? A tropical lizard?

The negotiation

Over the years, I’ve learned that the thermostat war is not a war you win. It’s a war you manage. There’s a ceasefire every summer when the AC kicks in and the same war happens in reverse, with me wanting it warmer and everybody else wanting to live in a meat locker.

So here’s my compromise offer, posted here for all the world to see: the thermostat stays at 68. In return, I will buy every member of this family a hoodie of their choosing. Thick. Warm. Personalized. That’s my final offer. You can be warm. You just can’t be warm on my dime.

Somewhere, a dad just read that and stood up and applauded. In his underwear. In a 68-degree hallway. Where he belongs.

Shop the damn thing: Hoodies — put one on, it's 68 in here for a reason.

Sound off in the comments: What temperature does your house sit at, and who’s the one trying to sneak it higher? No judgment. Okay, a little judgment.