Dad's Day

It was a quiet morning, already warm. I left early for church. There was one stop I needed to make on the way. One white Fiji mum left near the little gold airplane shining in the sun by Dad’s name.

Ten-thirty. Church service. I looked over at Puck during the prayer. He was busy working out both arms with a hymnal in one hand, Bible in the other. Like dumbbells.

“Puck!” I whispered.

“It’s okay, Mom! I’m paying attention!”

About two o’clock in the afternoon. Warmer. Everyone sat around the house and deck with fat plates of Mexican pile-up at the Silverspoon’s. While the four men chatted about airplanes and kamikazes on the deck – at least that was the report of their conversation – the women (well, Carrie-Bri, Rose, and myself) watched the ballgame from the living room as the innings disintegrated into another loss.

Meanwhile, Puck hadn’t been too sure about that whole Mexican pile-up idea. He could handle chips, rice, chili, lettuce, tomatoes, cheese, maybe a little sour cream, but coconut?

“Yuck.”

“Oh come on, Puck,” Gloria encouraged him. “Try it! It’s just the inside of the coconut.”

His eyes grew wide. “You’re eating its GUTS!”

After awhile the guys came in to swing Yali around in the living room – screaming, squealing, giggling, hamming it up as usual, the chubby little dimpled niño.

We hung around until the Rangers completed a sweep of the Cardinals downtown, then split several ways for the evening.

Hours later, I was washing down the living room walls to prepare for a full week of house painting. Puck came out in his jams.

“So what are we doing for Yali’s birthday tomorrow?” he asked.

“Well…” I thought about it for the first time – bad mama! – “…we have a long meeting with the school district tomorrow morning. Then we have to get groceries. Then Yali has speech therapy in the afternoon. And then we’re painting the house. Sound fun?”

Crickets.

So Oxbear included a subtle post script to help me out. “I rented a dolphin.”