So today is Father’s Day. 18th June 2017.
Or so the media and the big-box stores would have you believe. As for me, I don't consider it a BIG DEAL. I have always told our five children that fathers don't matter as much as mothers. After all, who brought you into the world? Not father. Who hugged and bonded with you first? Not father. Who fed you first? Not father. To whom did you run when hurt first? Likely not father. So, despite - so some say - someone called Sonora Smart Dodd, an American born in 1882, raised after the death of her mother by her father, started a Father's Day in 1910, we fathers pale in significance to mothers. Of our five children, some seem to have listened to their Father's preaching: the middle, trying to make herself the Unfavourite, one texted me early this morning; the second, trying to make herself the Favourite emailed a card with the heading UNFather's Day; and I haven't heard from the other three. I am certain I will not hear from the eldest until tomorrow. Nevertheless, My Beloved is making a special effort to assuage me of self-pity by cooking me her delicious and my favourite barbecued back ribs, along with hash brown potatoes and peas, followed by rhubarb crumble. Of course, there will be plenty of red wine for me to drown my sorrows in. And I just might have a brandy to top me off before retiring to bed in a state of MDD (Major Depressive Disorder). But when tomorrow comes, I will rejoice in the knowledge that I may be the only father in the world who is happy he was was not celebrated by his progeny (save one trying hard to be the Favourite and another trying hard to be the Unfavourite) and is happy that three listened to their father. And next Mother's Day, we will truly celebrate their mother, My Beloved, the truly important one of the family.