Fathers

Sunday is Father’s day.  I hate Father’s Day.  The best Mother’s day gift to me might just be not having to celebrate Father’s Day.  Please don’t misunderstand me, I love fathers.  I know some of the most amazing fathers, all of whom deserve more than just one day to celebrate their awesomeness.  My problem is that I have no idea how to celebrate this awesomeness.  I feel all this pressure to let the men in my life know how wonderful they are, but nothing sounds even remotely adequate.

Mother’s Day is a piece of cake.  If you are the adult child, you take the mother out for brunch.  You score bonus points if the brunch includes champagne.  If you are the small child, you can pretty much scribble on a piece of paper, present it with a sloppy kiss, and be considered golden.  Bonus points are scored here if your paper contains the word “best”.  “You make the ‘best’ spaghetti.” “You give the ‘best’ hugs”  “You are the ‘best’ shouter”  If you are the husband you just send the mom away while you take care of the kids AND clean the house, and by “take care of the kids” I mean get them all hopped up on candy, soda, and hotdogs, and don’t lose them anywhere it would be inappropriate for someone who knows your wife to find them and by “clean the house” I mean do a load of dishes and stuff things under the couch.  Bonus points for the husband are scored by sending the mom out for a pedicure and trying to make sure that the kids are not stickier than they were when she left.

I have no go to thing for Father’s Day.  I know how to score bonus points with the pastor, but it definitely doesn’t involve anything the kids want to see.  Oh, don’t raise your eyebrows at me!  Pastors like romance.  We have five kids, and as good and pure as I may be, none of them were a product of immaculate conception. 

Tradition says that a tie is a great gift.  A tie is not a great gift.  First of all, I don’t ever think I’ve heard a man pining away, wishing he had a tie.  Secondly, children tend to have the opposite of what is considered fashion sense and there aren’t too many offices where a Bart Simpson tie is considered appropriate.  Finally, The Pastor doesn’t wear ties and I’m pretty sure my dad burned all of his the day after he retired.  Also, my dad’s taste in ties revolves mainly around really wide psychadelic 70’s ties or those narrow navy and red or pale blue and yellow striped gems from the 80’s.

The other go to gifts for men (assuming he already has a collection of World’s Best Dad shirts) involve grilling supplies (grill as in cooking outside, not teeth) and tools.  Men don’t really want us buying either of those things for them.  I know nothing about either one of these items which pretty much guarantees the response of “These wrenches are metric, I needed standard.  I’m not a car guy.” Two totally unrelated statements as far as I’m concerned.  I’m the kind of girl who uses a Snap-On screwdriver as an ice pick.  I still have no idea why this story causes men to go pale and The Pastor to nod as if to say “See what I mean?”

Our go to gift used to be snacks.  We don’t really keep snacks in our house.  This is because I’m lazy and a dinner of potato chips and Slim Jims five nights a week is not healthy.  We are better off not keeping the stuff in the house.  When the kids were little we had one exception to this rule.  Every year, on the Friday before Father’s Day, I would take the kids to the snack isle in the grocery store.  As far as my kids were concerned, the snack isle was bordering on mythological.  It was a magical emporium filled with rare and unusual items to be given to their father once a year.  They would each then get to choose such novelties as Pringles (Oooooooooh!), Vitamin Water (Ahhhhhhhhhhh!), or the holy grail of snack foods, summer sausage (gasp!).  The Pastor, who appreciated these rare items even more than most women would appreciate diamonds and star sapphires, would carefully place these precious items in the cupboard above the microwave and the kids would go to bed happy, knowing that they had stocked their father’s treasure chest with the greatest of all gifts.  Now the kids are older.  And taller.  Now the kids can reach the cupboard above the microwave.  I’m pretty sure you can guess what happens to the greatest of all gifts within 36 hours of being placed in the treasure chest.

I think my solution this year will consist of one of two gifts.  I will either leave him home with the kids while I go get a pedicure, OR I will dedicate this blog to The Pastor, in celebration of his awesomeness. 

What about you?  Feel free to comment below with your best (or even better yet, worst) go to gifts.

 

 

 

I love you to pieces for reading my blog.  Share it and I will love you EVEN MORE!

 

 

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