(A Father's Day Story)
Slivers
of sunlight reached through the vertical blinds and warmed my legs as I rolled
over. Spring crickets sang their overture and the scent of blueberry pie wafted
over me before the . . . smoke? My eyes popped open like a toaster.
“It’s
okay.” Jill rested her gentle hand across my chest and stopped me from bolting
into the kitchen. “The girls are making you breakfast in bed . . . so don’t
move. I’ll check on them.”
“Smells
like we should call the fire department.”
“Just
a little burnt toast, I’m sure. Happy Father’s Day, honey.” She kissed my cheek
and left to supervise.
I
lay in bed trapped, waiting for breakfast. Didn’t they know I only drank coffee
in the morning? A dot of milk with no sugar. Strong and bitter. I wouldn’t feel
like eating till twelve, at least. I wiggled my toes out of the sheet so they
could breathe in some fresh air . . . and waited . . . read a chapter of Dr.
James Dobson’s Bringing up Girls. And waited.
Six
and ten year-old size footsteps pitter-pattered down the hall toward my door.
Then a knock loud enough to shatter my bones.
“Dad?”
Laura called.
“It’s
open.” I got up to help since their hands were full.
“What’s
this?” I looked as surprised as ever.
“We
made you breakfast for Father’s Day,” Sandy answered.
“We
have a few courses,” added Laura.
“Wow,
you shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble.” I kissed the tops of their heads and
smelled strawberries. Hmm. Shampoo or jam?
“We
made our favorites.”
Uh
oh.
I
propped up a few pillows, set the tray over my lap, and examined my first
course. Pancakes bursting with color.
“We
didn’t have chocolate chips, so we made M&M pancakes.”
“They
sure are colorful.” My beautiful daughters stared at me with wide grins,
waiting for me to take a bite, I supposed. I sawed off a tiny red and green
piece and hoped to swallow without tasting, but the sweet flavor lingered.
“Mmmm. Delicious. Guess I’ll wash it down with this super dark chocolate milk
you made.” I could see about one inch of syrup settled at the bottom like mud.
“Mmmm,
mmm.”
“We’ll
go get the next course while you finish your pancakes.”
As
soon as they closed my door, I scanned the room. How could I dispose of the
rest? My sock drawer . . . nah, I’d have rainbow streaked socks. Jill’s jewelry
box? Not a good idea. Under the bed wouldn’t work—Rex might get sick eating too
much junk food. I mean “breakfast.” He was already drooling and waiting for me
to toss him a bite.
They
must have returned with the next course in two minutes. I fumbled with a
napkin, wrapped some pancakes, and stuffed them in the back of my nightstand
drawer where I keep library books and tissues. “Come in.”
“Here’s
your cereal,” said Laura.
“Froot
Loops gots lots of vi-uh-amins,” added Sandy. “And I poured it myself.”
“Great.”
“We’ll
go get the last course ready.” Laura shut the door.
I
was glad to hear the end was near. I mustered the courage to take one mouthful.
Sugar and dye—the breakfast of champions. My stomach wasn’t ready for
artificial garbage, so I poured it out the window. I hoped it wouldn’t poison
any birds.
This
time they charged in without knocking.
“Here’s
your dessert,” said Sandy.
“Wow,
I get dessert too?”
“We’re
going to keep you company while you eat.”
They
hopped on the bed and stared at me as I stared at the toasted Poptart.
“It
got burnt on the corner where the sprinkles melted. I think that’s what made
smoke come out.”
“I’m
sure it tastes perfect. I like my food well-done.”
The
first bite sent shivers down my neck. Sweet blueberry with frosting and
sprinkles—who creates this junk? A ten year-old CEO? And worse yet, I bought this junk.
I
ate every crumb of that purple Poptart and washed it down with a tall glass of
ruby red Hi-C Punch. They smiled, so proud. I smiled and hugged them.
This
was the worst and best breakfast I ever had—made from my daughters’ sweet
hearts.
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