The kids woke me up at a 7:00 am with a card and presents. It was a funny card that said, “Thanks for always being there when we need you, Dad.” Inside it said, “Can we borrow 50 bucks?”
The presents were a swim suit, some socks and underwear. Just what I asked for. My youngest was incredulous that anyone would ask for clothes instead of toys.
We were visiting my wife’s sister in Pennsylvania and my brother-in-law made some delicious pancakes for breakfast. Then I spent a lazy Sunday watching my brother-in-law’s giant television, flipping between the protestors in Iran and Tiger at the US Open.
All was well. Then on the trip back home, we hit heavy traffic. “I think I’m going to be sick,” said my youngest. We stopped for gas and got some plastic bags for him to throw up in. My headache got worse, we were driving into the setting sun, and I had forgotten my sunglasses.
Finally we got home. It was time for dinner, but my oldest toasted a pop tart, I gave a couple of Ritz crackers to my youngest, and my wife got on the phone with the doctor. I carried the suitcases upstairs. Sighing, I made myself a peanut butter sandwich, and read a Raymond Chandler detective story, before going to bed.
Father’s Day, like every other day, comes with the good and the bad. And being a father is not all pancakes and presents.