Father's Day(Phil Penne) Father’s Day, 1992. A day that will be forever enshrined in some great cosmic Paternal Hall of Records.

I awoke Sunday morning to the sound of juvenile hoof beats thundering down the hallway accompanied by shouts of “SHUT UP! WE’RE S’POSETA’ SURPRISE HIM! NO, YOU SHUT UP!” The bedroom door flung open and two apple-cheeked cruise missiles vaulted through the air with their navigational computers set to “sour-stomach-from-eating-chili-at-10-pm” and “groin”, respectively. Each target was struck with deadly precision, causing me to grit my teeth and shriek…
“HOLYCRAPWHATTHEHELLYOUDOINYOUTRYINTOKILLME?”
Okay, not really. The pain actually manifested itself as “Hey guys! Good morning!”
I was lucky. At five and eight years old neither of my sons was worldly enough to recognize a pasted on smile when they saw one.
“Daddy, daddy – mommy said this is your special day so you could spend it with us, so she went to the mall with Aunt Nancy and said she won’t be back until after we go to bed!”
Note to self: Plan something special for Mother’s Day.

“Daddy, we made you breakfast. Hurry up!”
I made my way to the kitchen, taking out a big toe on the Mighty Morphin’ Power Rangers Megazord Robot in the hallway. Seating myself at the table I looked at the culinary cornucopia before me.
“Daddy, whatcha’ gonna’ eat first?”
“Oh, geeze guys, probably the Cocoa Puffs with syrup, honey and half a cup of sugar ‘cause, you know, that’s my favorite.”

After one bite I could feel the sucrose rush sweeping over my body. I swear to God, my teeth started wiggling. Hoping to buffer the effect I took a bite of the peanut butter toast.
“Daddy, is there enough peanut butter on the bread?”
Just in case this ever happens to you, be advised that “Sure boys, it’s just right” comes out “smoo barz, awz gus rart” when you’ve got a half inch thickness of creamy smooth Jif plastered to your upper palate. I’m not sure but I think my boys thought I was demon-possessed and speaking Latin backwards. No doubt disappointed when my head didn’t start spinning around they shoved the next course in front of me.
“Ummmm. Licorice?”
“No, daddy – bacon” Ian boasted. “Mommy said I couldn’t use the stove, but I could cook it in the microwave. It’s fast too – it only took five minutes to cook those two pieces!”
In retrospect, the charcoal did settle the Hormel chili stomach.
“Well sweetie, mommy’s right – only grownups should use the stove. Did she tell you that you couldn’t use the coffee maker either?”
Ian nodded enthusiastically and pointed with pride to the coffee cup. “We made you the instant kind like Aunt Nancy drinks! We used hot water from the sink!”

Astronauts? Base jumpers? Olympic javelin catchers? Pfff - please. You want to know what brave is? Brave is drinking a cup of instant coffee knowing full well that there is no instant coffee in the house. Getting past the three heaping tablespoons of drip grind coffee granules still floating on the surface of the tepid water was bad enough. Once they mated with the raw sugar still in my system from the cereal the effect was similar to some mind-altering substance the CIA would give a prisoner in order to extract information.

The culmination of the meal was dessert. Yes, you heard me.
Here’s the logic of a small boy: If a jelly doughnut’s good, then a jelly doughnut with more jelly spooned in through a gouged out hole in the side is better, and that same doughnut with half a tub of Cool Whip dumped over it and raisins sprinkled on top (in lieu of a cherry) is even better.

Having mercifully reached the end of the meal I thanked the boys and looked around at a kitchen that could easily be the inspiration for any disaster film. “It’s okay daddy – we’re gonna’ clean up the mess!”
Even with my mind in sugar and caffeine induced overdrive I knew I could not possibly fathom where such an offer could lead. In a flash of inspiration I reminded them of the new Ninja Turtles tape they had yet to watch. They spun around and headed for the living room. Trevor got the good spot directly in front of the TV. Ian stopped in mid flight, turned and asked:
“Was that a good breakfast, daddy?”
I looked at him and smiled. With all the sugar in me I couldn’t help but smile.
“It was the best breakfast I’ve ever had, sweetie.”
“Do you want us to make you breakfast next Father’s Day?”
A chaotic array of possible answers flashed through my brain. In my stupor I picked the one that any lobotomy patient, drug-impaired addict or daddy of two little boys would choose:
“Yep, I can’t wait!”

He raced off to exercise his role as alpha sibling and supplant his younger brother from the prime viewing position. In the ensuing scuffle I raised my voice just enough to be heard over Raphael, Donatello, Leonardo, Michaelangelo, Ian and Trevor:
“GUYS?”
They both snapped their heads in my direction.
Knowing I had no more than a 2.8 second window of opportunity before the TV once more demanded their attention I spoke.
“How about McDonald’s for lunch?”

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