The Papa
To the gentleman who brings me hot tea in the shower, spring cleans the sunroom while I sleep in late, and spearheads meal-making for not only the first week after babies arrive but for the entire month beforehand: to the wordsmith who wins me with one word: to the early bird who stores ten thousand dirty coffee mugs in the station wagon: to the bloke who ensures our children receive proper exposure to early-century silent film, Scrooge and Usagi, Abbot & Costello, and monsters with scary glasses: to the fellow who regularly sacrifices excess comfort, smooth-running cars, and a shelf of Lafferty volumes for feeding and sheltering his own: to the clear-eyed, clever man who chose to set aside Peace and Quiet years ago for a life of Jumbled Joy with his wife and many children,
Happy Father's Day to the Papa.
We love you, wholly.
4 comments :
That Flather's Day thing.. Is that something coming up soon? I always seem to miss it. It's clearer in my mind when Fluvver's Day is, but I usually get Flather's and Flatulencer's Days mixed up and end up missing them both, not-celebrating by grilling food or some other such.
This is EXACTLY why you're such a great Flather. You grill us feasty food on your special day! (No need to mention what you do to celebrate Flatulencer's Day...)
Maybe we could start a tradition of Flather-lencer's Day somewhere in between the two.
Day after day, year after year, all of this time, I've been thinking that I was celebrating lunch. Sometimes, I've dared think of big meals as flunch. Regardless, any day with fleasty flood is a ferry feshull day for me.
Flatulunch?
Flunchifat?
I don't care what you call it as long as long as Flather's-Day continues. I've grown quite fond of those Flather's-Day Feasts that I don't lift a fingle finger for.
Because I flub you. Frorevver.
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