I am so not artsy. In middle school, my art teacher commented that all my work was very “symmetrical.” I don’t think that’s really a compliment. Oh well, I have other skills. I think.
Anyway, that made preparing for Father’s Day a bit of a struggle. But I found a little kit and the kids decorated coffee cups for Philip. We drink an enormous, disturbing amount of coffee in our house.
They were pretty cute about it, and Philip was appropriately thrilled with his nonsensical, scribbled on coffee mugs. It was permanent marker, so the kids had to wear old T-shirts for decorating. I seriously think the cutest part of all of it is just how they looked doing the craft:
Viv looks like, “I will cut you!”
We colored the mugs on the front porch, since the markers they came with were permanent. Ignore my messy, paint-chipped porch.
Is there anything cuter than a kid in an oversized T-shirt? It’s just sweet.
Or it was, until I tried to take that shirt off Viv and she went completely insane, and threw the worst tantrum I’ve ever seen. It was so bad our niece, Melanie, who is staying with us, went inside and came back with her blankie. Good grief, Viv! It was funny, in a public screaming sort of way.
Every year on Father’s Day, my dad calls my husband and tells him that it’s his manly right to watch golf all day. It’s a running joke in our house, but one that’s partly honored. So, Philip watched a lot of golf on Sunday.
I ran with a friend this morning, and her husband did the same thing on Sunday. This must be the universal Father’s Day dream — golf. To me? Nightmare. Not many sports are as boring as golf to watch. Even in person. I can maybe get behind the park-like setting. Until you know, you have to play.
But it’s his day, so golf it is.
Boring sport or not, I lucked out with a good husband. A coworker went to the hospital today with his wife to have their first baby, and all I could think all morning was about the days our two children were born.
Philip was the most amazing labor coach, friend and comic relief in the hospital for me. He timed my laps walking the halls, and counted steps, and told me my splits to enter into my running log.
He untangled me from the Pitocin drip I kept getting stuck in.
He ordered me insane amounts of food he knew I would love.
He cried when both our babies were born, beautiful tears of happiness rolling down a huge, huge smile.
He named both our kids, choosing from the little lists we had come up with — names I love and that mean something to both of us (Jack after my dad, Genevieve after his grandmother).
And he’s done a billion other things — killed spiders, assembled cribs, painted baby rooms, endured an entire day of baby shopping with me and my mother (he should be sainted for that one). He was there for me when I was on bedrest, and there for me when we suffered miscarriages.
He reads to the kids every night, takes them to the library, puppet shows, the grocery store (which they love), the park, everywhere.
He folds tiny stacks of pink socks and camouflage shorts.
And more than that, he hugs them and kisses them and tickles them. He knows the names of all the trucks and how to dress a baby doll. He makes a mean mac-n-cheese.
Now, if he could just learn how to make a ponytail in a baby girl’s hair, he’d be perfect.