A Mother’s Day for Dad
Mother’s Day could easily become no more than “Sunday” for us. After all, we are a household with only a Dad and no Mom. Still, we never harbored any resentment toward the day. Nor did we harbor any resentment toward the people with wives and Moms who are able to celebrate.
This year was no different. We told the kids’ two aunts Happy Mother’s Day. We called my mother, their Grandma.
But my middle daughter had volunteered to play guitar for a friend who wanted to sing a song to her mother as a gift for the day. So the weekend was spent with that . . . the two girls locked in a room and bounding around the house all Saturday, rehearsing.
I have to admit to being more than a little grumpy about today. Not because of the day or stress . . . weekends are the only days I sleep in – and by sleep in I mean 8am at the latest. I still get up and make breakfast then exercise to loosen up my back. Today, though, I had to get up early and get ready for Sunday church – a different mass than I normally attend – so that my daughter could accompany her friend.
The performance was a success. The girls were more than a bit spectacular. After the mass a family friend ran up, gave me a hug, and said “you deserve a happy Mother’s Day, you do both Mom and Dad!” I didn’t argue, but did inform her that she was more tha a bit amazing herself as a Mom.
I decided, feeling rather good about the exchange, that rather than some exercise routine, we’d go out to breakfast.
That, of course, was a silly prospect considering what day it is . .. we tried three different places with lines at least an hour long. By the time we’d finished the third place it was 11am. We ended up at Red Robin having burgers, which was just perfect for the day, to be honest. We watched numerous families come in, the Dads avoiding cooking for the afternoon by letting the restaurant take the lead. Beside, who could take the time to make a hundred different burgers at home?
Discussion at the table centered around how good my daughter was playing the guitar for her friend. I showed my oldest daughter video of the performance. She echoed the sentiment . . . then told her sister how she needed to do her hair so people could see her pretty face.
“I could see what I was doing,” was her reaction.
“Yeah…but nobody could see your face,” her sister informed her. When we got home she helped arrange her hair so that it would be held on the back of her head.
By the time we’d checked the menu, my middle daughter said what was most important for the day:
“Well…it was a lot of work and made the weekend go quickly,” which I informed her wasn’t necessarily a good time for me.
“But we made a whole family happy. That’s important, isn’t it?”
She was right, of course, and we were ready to order.
It’s at this point, though, the waitress looked at us and said “Happy Mother’s Day” . . . to my oldest daughter.
The waitress looked at us all and said “Oh my God . . . Mom’s not a factor, huh?”
“Nope,” said my daughter, less than thrilled. The waitress, mortified, walked off.
“Why do they always assume that, I know I act older than I am, but really? Ewww. You’re my Dad. And it only happens here in California.”
We all busted out laughing.
“Well, maybe here it’s more common for a 43-year-old to dat e a20-year-old,” I said, laughing.
“Happy Mother’s Day, Dad,” my kids told me. And we ordered unhealthy, greasy burgers and had a most excellent day.