We celebrated Father's Day by making breakfast for Joel. It's painted toast: one tablespoon of milk, one drop of food coloring, one clean paintbrush, and away you go. It probably looks prettier on white bread, but we buy the grainy whole wheat variety.
Reese painted a flower. Brooke painted some image that can only be determined by her -- and then, as an extra touch -- she ate a portion of the toast before we could deliver it.
As soon as we entered the bedroom I could tell that Joel was sound asleep in that utterly happy place, so his first few sentences, "You made this for me? Thank you!" were slow and garbled. Such is Father's Day: being woken too early with the presentation of partially eaten toast.
We hung out in bed while Joel ate his toast, each girl picking off pieces here or there, crumbs falling into the sheets. The girls jostled each other to hand Joel the cards and pictures they had made.
Once we were up for the day, Kerrington covertly snagged Joel's Father's Day card discretely discarded it -- this time not in the trash can, but rather in the toilet. (Within moments she managed the same feat with Reese's bike helmet and Brooke's tea set, causing me to realize that we need a more stringent policy on closed bathroom doors.)
Reese's observation: "So, there's a day for mothers and a day for fathers, right? When is there a day for kids?"
That, dear child, would be everyday.