Friday held our school’s annual Father-Daughter Dance. I am guessing I attended ten of them with different combinations of daughters. There were a few years when all four were in school that I had to call in reinforcements – my brother-in-law and nephews. A Man Can Only Dance with so Many Women (Autobiography title – I call it!).
For as long as I can remember, Father’s Day started with breakfast in bed. Actually, since I wake long before my brood, it started with me milling around then getting back under the covers to feign sleep so they could “surprise” me with breakfast.
I would never have told them, but I hated breakfast in bed. I liked the idea of it but not the practice. All four of my girls would bound into my bedroom with excitement, hand over a brown tray filled with biscuits, jelly and coffee then leave me to have their own breakfast in the kitchen. Off in the distance I could hear them chatting and giggling as they ate with mommy. On the very day meant to celebrate my role in the family, I sat alone wiping jelly on the sheets because whichever one was napkin-bearer neglected her duty. Strange custom.
They have passed the age where breakfast in bed is fun. In fact, as teenagers they now believe that mornings are a punishment sent from old people to rob them of their joy.
I don’t miss breakfast in bed. But there is something missing. Read More