AND THE AWARD FOR SHITTEST WIFE IN THE WORLD GOES TO.....

This is a total rewind of last years Fathers Day Post.  This year, I will be up and cooking pancakes.  Or toast.  Or going out and breaking no less than 15 traffic rules to make the 10:30 breakfast cut off at Maccas. Either way, I will feed him this year.  I also spent ten bucks on a card that makes a farting sound when you pull its cardboard finger.  I've outdone myself this year.   Happy Fathers Day to all you dads out there!


My effort in 2010 went like this:

My blog was conspicuously absent from Fathers Day platitudes this year.  Not because I don’t think my husband is an ace father, I do and he is, but quite simply, when the day rolled around, I was holed up in bed, unable to move.  Now before you start to feel sorry for me, stop.  I don’t deserve your sympathy.  No you should be receiving me with scorn in your heart and with your lips twisted in distaste.   It was self-inflicted.

See, due to sucking back quite a few (mixed) beverages the day before, I was, well, shall we say, enduring quite the self-inflicted dehydration event that consisted of epic head pounding headaches and quite a few rides on the porcelain bus.  Yes, I had a hangover.  In my defence, we started drinking at a family gathering at 12pm on the Saturday and then continued on to a 40th where the last thing I remember was seeing a crowd surfing geriatric blow up doll.   I think my problem was quantity.  Ya think?  Phil imbibed equal amounts, but clearly, he’s not a girl, both literally and figuratively and can semi-function the next day.  God I miss my twenties on days like that.

So, my dear husband, the father of my three children, got up and cooked not only himself, but his children pancakes on Fathers day.   There was a five minute window where I managed to remove myself from bed and hand him a SuperDad Toblerone Chocolate bar and an obligatory coffee mug with a suitably hilarious Dad cliché emblazoned across the front.  Then the window shut and it was back to bed for me.

My lowest point however, was when I surfaced around three hours later to an empty house.   I sucked down some more water and Panadol, sat down on the couch and thought to myself  ‘Oh he must have taken them out for lunch, or ice-cream or to the park.’  Way. Off. Base.

I heard the car pull up.  I heard, what appeared to be a heated debate between 4yo and 9yo about whether the TMNT was called Michelangelo or Mikey. I heard Maddie scream at both of them to 'BE QUIET!!!!'  Oh dear.  That’s when I heard the rustle.  The rustle of grocery bags.

Yes my friends, my husband, on fathers day, had wrangled all three children into Coles at the local megaplex AND taken them to the foodcourt.  I know this because he mentioned 'It was really quiet in the foodcourt at lunchtime.' I gently reminded him that most families were probably ensconced in fathers day love-ins at trendy restaurants, hence the downturn at Maccas.

Here’s the thing though, shoe on the other foot i.e. should that have been me on Mothers Day; I would have been royally ticked off.  And I know how selfish that sounds, believe me, no one was more pissed at me, than me, but it’s the truth.  But not once did he complain.

I at least tried to make amends.  I took Hurricane Jack and we picked up pasta for dinner.  I cleaned up, I made lunches, I dealt with arsenic hour solo and sent him out to his shed to do bloke in shed stuff.  In short I tried to pack a day’s worth of being a proper wife into three short hours.

It’s overdue, I suck and you are awesome and even though you still don’t know you have an active Facebook account and more than likely will never read this, you’re a top dad and I love you to bits.