We once again returned to the local Irish pub for a Father’s day breakfast — my dad, my brother and I. This time we brought along VB, VM and my brother’s daughters for a full-on Daddy’s Day brunch.
Of course, as this is a “pub”, their food service is less than stellar. Instead of fast service and quality food, you pay for the Irish ambiance while the food takes 50 minutes to arrive, and does not include the pancakes you ordered.
Of course, VB would have none of this, and chose to exact his frustration on the wait staff by becoming so hungry that he threw up the only thing that had been in his stomach — milk — all over the floor.
As I lifted him over the heads of the family to rush him into the bathroom, wondering whether it was the empty stomach or a possible seizure, I remembered that this is what Father’s Day is about. I don’t mean about puking — although with VB that is a more common historical trend.
Rather, this day is really about what we do as dads. We clean up vomit (or, in this case, wave the staff of the restaurant over to do it, since they certainly weren’t focused on getting our brunch ready). We put band-aids on cuts, we play “Toddler Hits” 37 times in a row… Whatever it takes to keep our kids happy, healthy and safe.
To all those dads out there — fellow dad-bloggers, dad’s who have the backs of mommy-bloggers, your dad, my dad: Happy Father’s Day.
You forgot, “We wipe the poop and Vaseline off the bars of the crib.” Oh, that’s just me, then?
Anyway, as always, spot on. Belatedly, happy day, dad.
Don’t forget smooshing the spiders, real or imaginary, and chasing the monsters out from under the bed.
Happy Belated Father’s Day, my friend. You deserve it.