I’m up at 6 AM with The Boy this morning, making a special Father’s Day breakfast of biscuits, bacon, eggs, and fresh coffee. Normally I get to sleep in a bit while my husband makes breakfast with the kids & gets the family dressed. This morning I am resolute: Daddy gets a lie-in while Mommy takes care of everything. I’m going to hold fort until the babysitter gets here at 9 (another surprise for Ralph) and he & I go out together.
But MAN, I hadn’t realized how tough it is. Mostly because I am bleary and sluggish in the morning until I’ve had my first eight cups of coffee. My cooking skills – honed well for dinner preparation – seem to lack in the breakfast department. I am jumpy as I gingerly peel the biscuit cardboard tin open. I slosh coffee and wipe it off the counter with my pajamas. Nels is happily going through the tupperware drawer and throwing pieces ten feet into the garbage can (good aim, son!) as I burn the bacon and trip over him to get forks and when Siouxsie wakes up I make some administrative decision that pisses her off and she lashes out in a full-on clawed assault. I pick her up to take her to her room, nudging Nels aside in the process. Both kids wailing now. I hear the door to our bedroom shut and can picture my husband throwing himself under the blankets in a desperate hope that if someone comes in they won’t see him there. Good boy.
Ding! biscuits done. That’s it, time’s up. He’s slept in a full 36 minutes. I send The Girl in to deliver his homemade card (“To A WHALE Of A Father!”) and the gift I assily-wrapped at some point this morning. When he stumbles into the living room I beg for his help in setting the table. I put The Boy in his highchair and Ralph and I enjoy five minutes talking in the kitchen and getting coffee when we realize Nels is too quiet. We peek around the door frame and see he has climbed OUT of his highchair (first time ever) and is sitting on the table, happily demolishing all the bacon on the platter. I feel a small sting of pride. If bacon isn’t a motivating factor, he’s no son of mine.
By nine when Michelle gets here I feel we’ve been taking care of the babies for HOURS. We head off to coffee; the beach; the park; window shopping. Hold hands and converse with NO interruptions. It’s great.
My husband in various “action poses” in his Father’s day underwear. I told him I needed a “detail” shot of the front placket of the boxers and he – well – let’s just say it was family humor and won’t be published. Until we get a Paypal button on the site for porn, anyway.