Here's the tale of my first, and favorite, Fathers Day as a father. There's a real good chance that it's been told before, but I'm known for telling my "stories" over and over again.
It's worth repeating.
My son was just shy of 11 months old. I woke early and quietly slipped out of bed. I started a pot of coffee, cooked some bacon, eggs and waffles. I warmed some formula.
I gently lifted my son from his crib and nestled him next to Mom in bed. I then served them both breakfast in bed – tray, flower and all.
"Wait," my wife said," it's Fathers Day, I should be doing this."
My response? "What better way to celebrate my first 'real' Fathers Day than by pampering the two I love so dearly and who made it all possible."
I was then the able to sit, uninterrupted, to eat my breakfast, sip my coffee and read the Sunday paper without having to ask "are you done with section B yet, and where is it?"
I was also given license to putter about the yard that afternoon ... and have a beer or three while doing so.
It was a very, very good day. Three happy, fed and smiling people.
