Adam Brophy fantasises about a perfect Father's Day where Dad is king
They say it's a made-up day, invented by Hallmark. As they say, they say a lot of things. We're supposed to do the usual Dad stuff, mumble along in agreement, shrug it off, shucks man don't make a fuss. It's not a big deal, if it were they would have called it Mother's Day.
Wrong. Father's Day is my day. And I want some respect. Godfather style.
Tomorrow, I want to be let sleep until I wake naturally. If a child should cry during the night, she should be dealt with in a feminine way. When my slumbers come to their own conclusion, all I ask is a cup of tea - and maybe some eggs. Benedict or Florentine would be nice. Scratch the tea, we're going fresh coffee, wholemeal toast, grilled kippers, smoked haddock egg-white omelette, full Irish breakfast featuring Clonakilty puddings, chilled, organic orange juice, and a refreshing, convivial flute of Krug.
Delivered, obviously, to my bed.
I shall eat as my offspring sing and dance through a self-written revue, produced especially for me, in a burst of unprovoked creativity from the pure well of appreciation they have for all I do, and all I have given up for them. They may only be four and one, but such is their love for their father they will exceed the boundaries of ability for my simple pleasure.
Afterwards, they will hug me and go entertain themselves for a full 24 hours.
The missus will flutter around, ensuring the sports and motors sections have been removed from all the Sundays and brought to the fore for ease of access. My slippers and dressing gown (washed for the first time) will have been warmed in the hot-press.
Once comfortable in the aforementioned daywear, I will be seated in front of the TV to peruse the compilation of World Cup highlights on DVD that I have heretofore been denied in favour of Barney and High-5 videos. When catch-up is completed, I will slip into the lavender bath, lovingly run by my admiring spouse, and gorge on the sports news in anticipation of uninterrupted live viewing of the day's three games.
Live sport is thirsty work, but an ice-cold Stella will never be more than a finger-click away. I may be joined on the couch by an assortment of other fathers as our partners busy themselves at the barbecue, occasionally calling in to confirm how we like our steaks, all our children playing contentedly well out of earshot. We fathers will speak knowingly of where the international coaches' tactics are failing, and put the world to rights in the lull between games.
As evening draws in my children will approach, gently nudge me from my doze and present me with hand-written poems on parchment before taking themselves off to bed, chatting animatedly about how lucky they are. The other Dads will eye me enviously before bidding adieu and hauling their not-quite-so-perfect families home.
I will consider negotiating the stairs and then find the missus telling me to relax a while longer, she has been too busy all day to give me a soothing foot massage. She may well have a glint in her eye.
There's a small chance not all of this will happen, but hope springs eternal. Wish-fulfilment is obviously an issue, and I find it quite telling that my own long-suffering Dad hasn't got a look in. A card is on its way.
But Father's Day, however petty, contrived and mechanistic it may seem, now takes the place of birthdays. We will feign indifference, but isn't that our natural state? We can't get enthusiastic about our own celebrations - our rights to do that were whipped away when we entered fatherhood in the first place.
Birthdays and Christmas and Easter and Valentines and equinoxes and Big Brother evictions and last minute cup-final victories - they are the preserve of the kids now. We stand by with studied indifference, knowing it all and knowing it will cost us in some way. Give us our Hallmark-sponsored Father's Day and let us bask in the pretence that we are, in fact, the centre of the universe.
I will get a lie-in tomorrow. I may even get breakfast made for me. The kids won't leave me alone for a minute and for that I am grateful. For a couple of hours I will be made a fuss of. Having a Father's Day celebration is a little like expecting people to congratulate you for breathing, you just do it. But this year I am going to smile and say bring it on. Dammit, I deserve it!
Adam Brophy writes the weekly It's a Dad's Life column in The Irish Times on Wednesdays.