I am an only daughter to my parents and wife to my dear husband. (Dare I also mention that I am chief organizer, house cleaner, laundress, and cook? But I digress…this is a post about dads!) And so, on Father’s Day, I host a double-header.
Sunday will be full of cleaning, making sure the kids have their cards and presents ready for both their father and grandfather, cooking a meal that will appeal to both my dad (a red meat lover) and my husband (not a red meat lover) and balancing my role as daughter, mother and wife. (Wait a minute – that sounds like almost every Sunday in our house!)
I am certain that my father will watch the final day of the U.S. Open golf tournament. I know this because the last day of the Open has often fallen on Father’s Day, and as a child, I can recall waiting for my dad at the dinner table — for HIS father’s day dinner — until the last player finished putting on the 18th green and the stirring trophy presentation. All the while, CBS golf commentators describe, with hushed voice and insipid music in the background, the special relationship between the champion and his dad while trying to create an emotional moment. Tissue, please.
I am equally certain that my husband will sleep as late as he possibly can while I make the kids their favorite breakfast – pumpkin pancakes, bacon, fresh fruit, milk and juice. When he begins to wake up, we will have a family snuggle and then I will take the kids to the pool or the park, and COSTCO no doubt. Hubby will work, maybe get in a run, and possibly pitch in with some domestic chores. (Wait a minute that is also live EVERY other Sunday.) The only possible variation here is that the kids might want to go out for brunch – I give that a 25% chance.
In the evening, we will have a sumptuous family dinner, good conversation and afterwards, the kids will “perform” a magic trick or sing a song for post-dinner entertainment. (Again – like so many other Sundays….)
Hmmmm… All of this sounds eerily familiar – and, upon further examination, Father’s Day is remarkably similar to every other Sunday in my house – minus the gifts and cards.
No wonder I am so flippin’ tired on Mondays!
