Fodder of the Year

Father’s Day was very uneventful, which is exactly the way I like it.

I have a hard time celebrating holidays that to me hold little or no sentimental value. Translation for all of you cynics out there: Yes, I’m tired of getting busted for not putting thought into “holidays” that roll around each year at the same time only to become a repeat offender (great album by Richard Marx) in the crappy husband category because the kids and I haven’t done jack squat for Traci until the day of. There. I said it. Happy?

But how about a honest show of hands: Who really wants to wait in line for over an hour at Outback Steakhouse on the day they open five hours early so that everyone can celebrate Mum? Not me.

Adversely, I don’t want to suffer outside in a hundred degree heat while waiting to celebrate my alleged greatness over a Bloomin’ Onion either. All I really want is some extra time with my kids, the couch, and the Playstation and we can call it good. And a slice of chocolate chip cookie with icing on it from Great American Cookie wouldn’t hurt either.

So yes, my Father’s Day was what some might deem boring. Dull. Lackluster. Nothing special to the casual onlooker.

I call my dad. Brady asks to talk. I wait through seven or eight rings and hand Brady the phone when I finally hear my dad’s voice.

“Happy Fodder’s Day, Papaw.”

I should note that while I’ve made this grand declaration about not wanting a big deal made of the day, Brady has just told his Papaw something he hasn’t even told me yet, and it’s already one in the afternoon.

“Um, we’re going to the grocery store. And to get somefing for my daddy that I can’t talk about.”

A cookie. I hope it’s a nice big cookie with an excess of chocolate icing. And milk – we’re almost out.

“I also swam in my nana and my papa’s pool yesterday wiffout my fwoaties. Okay, well, love you. Bye, Papaw.” He hands the phone back to me and jumps off the couch.

While translating for my dad, I hear the front door lock behind my family as they embark on their clandestine mission. Dad and I spend the next twenty minutes or so catching up and talking baseball before saying goodbye to spend our respective Fathers’ Days relaxing on our respective couches.

Somewhere between the fourth and sixth innings of my second PS3 baseball game, the troops return, weighed down by a rainbow assortment of blue, red, and green reusable grocery bags, two Sunday papers complete with coupons for a story I’ll share with you at a later date, and freshly made cookies from the greatest sliced cookie store ever.

“We brought you sumpfing,” Brady taunts as he stands in front of me, blocking the television as I try unsuccessfully to hit a wicked curve ball that bounces a couple of feet in front of home plate.

I push him to the side, just in time to strike out. I don’t acknowledge the shopping sack full of sliced cookies. The kid shouldn’t think I’m that easy, which for the record I am.

“Are you out or in?” he inquires of my player’s status. At four he’s still learning the finer points of baseball while simultaneously finding a way to put his own spin on it.

“Out.” No thanks to you.

“What team are you?”

“The Texas Rangers.”

“Again? You should be the Pigeons.”

I give him a confused, yet curious look as to why he’d suggest I should be a professional baseball team called The Pigeons. Before I can ask, something in the kitchen distracts him and he steps out of my line of sight to investigate. It’s then I see my opponent’s mascot on the TV screen. A brown and orange bird.

 “They’re not pigeons, Brady. They’re Orioles,” Kacie says, in her best know-it-all big sister voice.

“From Baltimore,” I finish.

We share a glance. I’m satisfied in knowing that my love of baseball has effortlessly passed itself on to her. She’s good to go with the knowledge that for now she’s still smarter than her little brother.

“Oh. Well you should make a team and call it the Pigeons. That would be cool.” He retreats to the kitchen with the bag full of cookies.

The banter between the three of us is nothing out of the norm for a Sunday afternoon – or any day for that matter - and serves as a reminder that I don’t need one day out of 365 for my kids to show me that they love me.

My little contributions to society have been brainwashed to love me every day (a little less when I’m grounding them), not because I’m Daddy, and certainly not because they think it’s funny that I put up such a fight in resisting their advances in renaming me “Dad” but instead because I truly am that awesome. But mostly, they love me on days like Father’s Day because buying me a cookie slice means that by default they too get cookie slices.

How’s that for Fodder of the Year? And I didn’t even have to leave the living room.

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