Saturday mornings are not for wienies. A lot of people look at Saturday as a day of rest but if you own a home and you're a dad, it's a day to get all that stuff done you didn't get done during the week. A week's worth of stuff to do in one day. Only dad's can do that.
The day starts soft. You sleep in a little later than you did during the week, but knowing its the weekend, you stayed up later on Friday night, maybe treating yourself to watching the 10 o'clock news. You throw your robe on and wander out with the dogs to collect the paper from the driveway. It's beautiful this time of year, still cool but not cold. Here is where things start to get aerobic. The paper isn't seen. That's because the paper boy on the big paperboy bike is no longer a paper boy, but a grown man or woman driving a 1987 Toyota getting up at three in the morning to earn a few extra bucks. They don't like their job; who would at three in the morning? The care they give your paper when they toss it into your driveway and it slides under your car, is not high on their list. So, in your robe and half secured sandals, you get down on your hands and knees and crawl under the car to retrieve it.
You spend the next hour making your coffee, reading the paper, and then a quiet moment by yourself in the bathroom. The house is quiet. The only quiet for the whole day. You love that. You finish the paper with the comics and a weak attempt at the crossword puzzle then, after making yourself a second cup, you start to organize your attack. The lawn? That leak in the sink? Summer is just a few hours away, that means the swamp cooler needs to be prepped and staged for service.
Now, fathers with kids, it takes on a new meaning. Children want to participate in the cool stuff that we call 'labor' which, of course, adds six hours to any project. I always wondered how my father, in his late fifties, was so strong. He didn't work out (early seventies, no one worked out) but in his role as father he would routinely wrestle with my older brothers who were young strapping teenagers and he would always, win-always. His arms weren't 'cut' or bulky but smooth and non-descript. It was not until I became a father did I realize his strength came from carrying kids around the yard, up on the roof, to the store, everywhere. Dads ALWAYS worked out. Plus, they knew holds and kicks they learned in those 'special schools' while they were in the military or some other para-military organization that would render strapping teenagers useless.
As the day crawls through the hours, things start getting checked off; the yard, that leak, the awesome swamp cooler. Meanwhile, mother is working on the inside, either with the children, or creating another list for you to start, just in case you finish your first list. Idle hands are the Devil's workshop-or something like that. Women don't like men with idle hands.
Scientifically, men go home to God ten to fifteen years before women. Doctors and scientists have made livings studying how to improve and extend our lives. I don't know about you but I want them to stop. I don't want to live to be ninety with the last seven years in a diaper and people talking to me at the top of their lungs because I can't hear.
Nope, God doesn't like that either. Men go home ten to fifteen years earlier than women because of two reason, 1) they have become such flaming butts they need to be removed from the planet and deposited somewhere else (yes, this is Biblical-its in the minor prophets somewhere) or 2) it's God's reward for a job well done. So, men, I think we bitch about our Saturdays only if we're not real men, like we're from France. A real man will attack their Saturdays! Make it from dawn until dusk, stress that heart, torque that back. Yep, that's what we'll do.
Who knows, the bus might get here that much sooner!
The day starts soft. You sleep in a little later than you did during the week, but knowing its the weekend, you stayed up later on Friday night, maybe treating yourself to watching the 10 o'clock news. You throw your robe on and wander out with the dogs to collect the paper from the driveway. It's beautiful this time of year, still cool but not cold. Here is where things start to get aerobic. The paper isn't seen. That's because the paper boy on the big paperboy bike is no longer a paper boy, but a grown man or woman driving a 1987 Toyota getting up at three in the morning to earn a few extra bucks. They don't like their job; who would at three in the morning? The care they give your paper when they toss it into your driveway and it slides under your car, is not high on their list. So, in your robe and half secured sandals, you get down on your hands and knees and crawl under the car to retrieve it.
You spend the next hour making your coffee, reading the paper, and then a quiet moment by yourself in the bathroom. The house is quiet. The only quiet for the whole day. You love that. You finish the paper with the comics and a weak attempt at the crossword puzzle then, after making yourself a second cup, you start to organize your attack. The lawn? That leak in the sink? Summer is just a few hours away, that means the swamp cooler needs to be prepped and staged for service.
Now, fathers with kids, it takes on a new meaning. Children want to participate in the cool stuff that we call 'labor' which, of course, adds six hours to any project. I always wondered how my father, in his late fifties, was so strong. He didn't work out (early seventies, no one worked out) but in his role as father he would routinely wrestle with my older brothers who were young strapping teenagers and he would always, win-always. His arms weren't 'cut' or bulky but smooth and non-descript. It was not until I became a father did I realize his strength came from carrying kids around the yard, up on the roof, to the store, everywhere. Dads ALWAYS worked out. Plus, they knew holds and kicks they learned in those 'special schools' while they were in the military or some other para-military organization that would render strapping teenagers useless.
As the day crawls through the hours, things start getting checked off; the yard, that leak, the awesome swamp cooler. Meanwhile, mother is working on the inside, either with the children, or creating another list for you to start, just in case you finish your first list. Idle hands are the Devil's workshop-or something like that. Women don't like men with idle hands.
Scientifically, men go home to God ten to fifteen years before women. Doctors and scientists have made livings studying how to improve and extend our lives. I don't know about you but I want them to stop. I don't want to live to be ninety with the last seven years in a diaper and people talking to me at the top of their lungs because I can't hear.
Nope, God doesn't like that either. Men go home ten to fifteen years earlier than women because of two reason, 1) they have become such flaming butts they need to be removed from the planet and deposited somewhere else (yes, this is Biblical-its in the minor prophets somewhere) or 2) it's God's reward for a job well done. So, men, I think we bitch about our Saturdays only if we're not real men, like we're from France. A real man will attack their Saturdays! Make it from dawn until dusk, stress that heart, torque that back. Yep, that's what we'll do.
Who knows, the bus might get here that much sooner!
Mark,
ReplyDeleteYou have truly been touched by "something" and it is all starting to come together now!
Rick