You Procreated This Mess!

I had a really busy week last week and it was a struggle just to keep my head above water, so that’s why I only posted one blog. The weekend itself was devoted to attempts, successful and failed, to honor my husband for Father’s Day. It’s only fair to make it a Father’s Weekend as Mother’s Weekend is the custom for me, and I’m thinking of stretching that to a full week next year. I figure by the time I’m forty, I can convince my family to consider the entire month of May a mother’s holiday extravaganza. But, back to this weekend and my husband’s turn to be pampered by our three miscreants.

It really all started in Target (doesn’t everything?), when we were picking out his Father’s Day cards. Originally, it was going to be a Father’s Day card, singular. But, to keep with traditions of conflict, the kids couldn’t agree on one. The ridiculousness of this is confounded by the fact that only one of my children can read, so clearly the disagreement was picture based. One of the girls had actually picked up a sympathy card as her first choice. Sadly, there are days of fatherhood for which her card would’ve been appropriate. I decided to guide them in the right direction with the cards and let each choose their own, since they wouldn’t be involved in the purchasing of the gift. Neither would I, and I’ll get to that part of the story later.

The first thing the girls do, when they are involved in any preparations for gift giving, is to inform the recipient of what they will be getting and what has been purchased thus far. This time it was only the cards and comments on a gift my husband was already aware he was receiving, but they are devoted to ruining any and all surprises for Christmases, birthdays, and special anniversary dinners. It’s genetic; a trait they inherited from my mother that skipped a generation in my case. And in both my daughters’ and mother’s case, it seems completely uncontrollable. They are confident they can keep a secret right up until they see the person from whom the secret is being kept, and then suddenly it’s as if someone has slipped them some truth serum and they’re being tortured for information by Russian operatives. Suffice it to say, these are not the ladies we should trust with the nuclear weapon launch codes for our country.

On to the gift segment of our story. . . My husband really enjoys basketball, so I thought it would be nice if we could get a basketball hoop to put up in our driveway. The idea stage was as far as I could take it though, because what do I know about picking out a basketball hoop? Or purchasing it? Or loading it in the van? Or assembling it? The logistics were above my pay-grade. So, basically, I said, “We want to get you a basketball hoop for Father’s Day. Can you go get one and put it together?” He obliged our request and went on to pay for, pick up, and assemble his own Father’s Day gift. I don’t think this can be considered the royal treatment in our society. Especially because the assembly took about a fortnight and involved a few minor injuries.

“We” made him a big breakfast on Sunday, and were accomplices in his unhealthy cinnamon roll choice on Saturday morning. And even though he didn’t need a break from the cooking he never does, we decided to go out to dinner on Saturday night. We went with our neighbors to Texas Roadhouse, where we were seated in the “family section”, a.k.a. the corner they stick everyone that has very small children and babies in. That was a good move on their part, since during the course of our meal I saw our combined six children do everything you can imagine; including, but certainly not limited to, screaming at the top of their lungs for food, dancing, arm wrestling, laying down to rest, full-throttle cackling, and knife-wielding. My husband got the “honor” of sitting between the twins and serving as food-cutter and drink-controller. And, as I’m income-challenged, he even got to pay for our raucous steak dinner.

And, of course, like all American holidays, this one called for the consumption of surplus calories. In honor of fathers, I ate two and half preliminary rolls with cinnamon butter before attacking and conquering my entrée. The food offerings went on all weekend and I rationalized things like ice cream and fresh from the oven peanut butter cookies in the same day. Because my husband’s a good father.

Yesterday, at least, he got to enjoy his hard-earned basketball hoop. We had another family over to help us break it in. We let the children have the first turn, and their ranks diminished quickly through face/head injuries, distraction, and the heat pushing them back into the air conditioning. After all of the kids were tucked away with sugar and a movie, we played a couple of games of two-on-two. This was an experiment in extreme street ball because it was the middle of the afternoon and 400 degrees outside. I think the actual thermometer reading was 95, but the heat index was 127ish. That portion of the weekend was made possible by the scientists at Gatorade.

But, on a serious note (not that possible heat stroke isn’t serious), I know that yesterday was about honoring the strongest of men – Fathers. Guys that know no amount of personal toughness can prepare for them for battlefield of fatherhood. A service that calls on you to be strong when everyone else around you is crying, to provide, to protect, to give affection and correction, always digging deep in yourself for unending patience and unlimited forgiveness while balancing the weight of your family’s world on your shoulders. And that’s tough.

And I’m so thankful I married a man that is fully committed to making our children be the best people they can be. I’m thankful he’s more patient with them than I am, so that they know there are other options besides sheer frustration. I’m thankful he’s capable to handle all three on his own (some men aren’t) while I pursue my dreams and hobbies from time to time. And I’m thankful he put together his own Father’s Day present, because outside of a cake or a lasagna, I’m completely assembly-handicapped.

We’re heading to the beach for vacation, and I’ll be keeping you posted!