Father's Day calls to mind a lot of things, but I can't get past the spilled coffee. With three kids, sentiment rarely carries the dayany daybut especially not Father's Day. In my very own home, I had to put the kibosh on one abomination of a Father's Day tradition: the seemingly straightforward breakfast-in-bed routine. As my three sweet, rambunctious, but overly-eager-to-please kids ("I want to give it to dad...no, I do!) approached the bed, instinct told me to flee the scene.
Instead, spilled coffee became the annual wake-up call. And there is no worse way to run out the clock on Father's Day than festooned with burn damage. On the odd occasion when the coffee didn't get me, I'd wake up days later to uncover a forgotten waffle.
Dignity, thy name is not Father's Day.
So how about it? As a prelude to Father's Day, there are limitless articles on potential gifts. But with the shopping for the day now safely behind us, can we level with each other in a post-script and simply ask:
What's the worst you've faced on Father's Day?
Let's talk about how our hopes for the day were squashed between the toes of reality. Maybe, as men, it says something instructive about our hopes -- or, perhaps even more likely, something sad about our reality.
Remember: no need to stand on ceremony with me, a guy with coffee in his lap. But let's not turn this space into a lament about gifts, though God knows we've probably each returned a minimum 1,423 ties and tools.
I spoke to about a dozen dads around Westchester. Mishandled coffee did not prove a common complaint, but dads, perhaps an ungrateful group by nature, do nurse grievances about their signature day.
To one 44-year-old man from Katonah (who will remain nameless to protect his life at the hands of his wife) the day goes down in flames with a family walk in the woods when what he really wants is a round of golf.
He has nothing personal against nature. It's just that after about 40 feet, the kids get whiny and a discovery of a tick causes a thermo-nuclear tantrum, all of which are in short supply with a foursome of fellow dads out on the links.
Another dadby his own admission no candidate for father of the yearis obliged to host a family gathering of about 20, turning him into "Cinderfella" when he just wants a free pass for the day.
That thread, in fact, ran constant. In talking to men around the county, it seems that for Father's Day most welcomed the possibility of an escape hatch, a domestic get-out-of-jail free time. But family had something else altogether in mind, like family time.
I feel their pain. Men in the wild like to sow their wild oats. Living in suburban captivity, we simply want that brief, shining moment of free play -- kind of like recess, but for balding, overgrown kindergarteners. It's tribal, if ridiculous and selfish. In other words, totally male.
I once wanted to play in a basketball tournament on Father's Day, but was guilted into a day of father-daughter art projects. I love my daughter, but on my one day of the year, I wasn't ready for basketball to be subordinated to glitter and glue.
Wouldn't you know it, too, the glue gun malfunctioned and hot glue oozed out unexpectedly. The end result? More burn damage.
Fess up. How did you really want to spend your Father's Day? Tell us in comments below, or on Facebook.
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Marek Fuchs is the author of "A Cold-Blooded Business," called "riveting" by Kirkus Reviews. He wrote The New York Times' "County Lines" column about life in Westchester for six years and teaches non-fiction writing at Sarah Lawrence College, in Bronxville. When not writing or teaching, he serves as a volunteer firefighter. You can contact Marek through his website: www.marekfuchs.com or on Twitter: @MarekFuchs.
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