Father's Day

If my family was bad about Mother's Day (and we were) we were even worse about Father's Day. I don't remember ever even discussing why we weren't celebrating it, let alone actually doing anything for it.

But really, that's too bad. After all, there's never anything wrong with going out to brunch. Or dinner. Or even both.

I have heard that while Mother's Day is the biggest day of the year for florists and card sellers, Father's Day is the biggest for collect calls.

That's ridiculous. It's so ridiculous I hope it's a joke, even if Garrison Keillor is passing it along as if it were true.

We took Mark to the river for a picnic. There was a dead fish lying in the river kinda close to where we were picnicking, but we managed to ignore that and eat our chicken and carrot sticks and grape tomatoes and rolls. The kids waded out into the water. Nick got in up to his waist, and for once there was actually a towel in the back of the car for him to sit on.

Then there were presents and cake and ice cream when we got home. Small gifts, but fun ones. A book (yes, I bought my husband a kids' book), a mix CD (Mariah made it), a cup Nick glazed in school and a "hand" from Nick: he traced his hand on construction paper five times, and wrote promises on each one. "I will set the table." "I will pack my lunch." "I will feed the cat." "I will wash the car." "I will help cut the grass." He delivered on three of them today.