HAPPY FATHER’S DAY DADDY

It’s, Sunday. 8:30am.

It’s Father’s Day and I’m trying to wrestle myself out of the choke- hold that sleep has on me. I’m already well past my sleep-in time but I’m clearly losing the fight. “Maybe it’s the sip of whiskey I had late in the night that has me on babalas”, I think. “Kodwa who ever got hungover from a single sip of whiskey?”

“Maybe it’s because you drank it straight from the bottle like the drunken uncle from next door” I think to myself. “You should have done it like they do in the movies…from a glass. You know, with class”. 

The mental drama is rudely interrupted by my 3 kids who have come to perform their Special Day rituals. On their mother’s recent birthday, they asked if they could go roll on her while she was in bed. In my thoughtless excitement I agreed to this nefarious plan. And now, I’m in bed reaping the rewards of my own plans. Karma!

They take turns rolling on me, running around the bed and doing it all over again, all the while laughing and shouting as if we were a family of unruly teenagers.

One of the sons somehow gets his hands under the covers and touches my bare skin. It loosens the hold that sleep has on me and now I’m awake. 
HAPPY FATHER’S DAY, DADDY!

Just as quickly as they came into the room, they are out again. My wife says “wait here for your breakfast”. “No, wait I’ll come out there (into the cold)” I say. “They wanted to give you breakfast in bed”. “Eish, okay” I say. It’s silent for nearly a full minute before they return.

She hands me a tray full of food- bacon and cheese omelette, filter coffee, a glass of mango juice and toasted Portuguese buns. Okay the buns could have been French, maybe Italian- I’m not sure, but I’m certain they were European. They were white and had flour on them. If the buns were not European, the flour would have been inside the bun, not outside. Anyway, hot coffee and cold juice, at the same time…that’s just confusing. My wife’s Belgian influence on her African-ness is clearly showing.

The food is delicious (as always). But this breakfast-in-bed thing must be relooked at. I don’t understand why it’s such a thing. Between balancing the tray on the lap and trying to making sure that I don’t get oily omelette pieces on our white Egyptian cotton duvet cover…it’s all a bit too much pressure. Bedrooms are not designed for eating- I blame Bold and the Beautiful for this.

The kids are back.

At least they have hand- made cards and presents. I hear stories of my son and I flying on rocket ships around the galaxy, why the sun is wearing sunglasses and earrings, and of bunnies eating carrots under the sun. My daughter crowns me with a paper crown with “King Daddy” written on it. “It might be a little too small or a little too big” she says, “I had to guess how big your head is”.

A crown’s value is bestowed by the hands that give it.

It’s a perfect fit!

My stomach and my heart are full.
I guess all is going to be well after all.

It’s Father’s Day, and I am very happy to be one. 

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