If you’ve been reading my blog for a while (say, since Monday), you’ll know that I’m not a contender for Mother-of-the-Year.
Well, here’s a newsflash. I’m also not a contender for Wife-of-the-Year or Daughter-of-the-Year.
No holiday makes that more obvious than Father’s Day.
Here’s my evidence:
- I don’t send my dad a card or buy him a gift. When I was growing up, we were frequently applying herbicides and pesticides to our crops on Father’s Day, which means my dad and our entire family were dealing with dangerous chemicals. (Yes, I realize that may shed some light on my personality now). Anyway, when you’re on a busy grain farm, Father’s Day is a luxury. Maybe if the wind got up, we’d barbecue steak. But a full day celebration? No way.
- I don’t buy my husband a gift or a card. I do, however, make him dinner and drag the kids to visit him at work. Last year, I was in such a rush to see him that I got a speeding ticket.
- But here’s my best evidence: Father’s Day 2004. When Vivian and William were an alien-looking 3 weeks old. When we lived in Bangkok. When I had a meltdown of nuclear proportions. You can read about it in The Calgary Herald, where it appeared yesterday. Click HERE to read The Infamous Father’s Day Meltdown.
Any Father’s Day failures in your memory? Successes?