It was my own damn fault that Simone was brooding and insufferable by the time we got to the brunch place on Father’s Day. With an 11:30am reservation, I was up early enough to make myself a dirty chai, but she’d slept in and literally showered and dressed just in time for us to leave the house and walk the mile or so into town.
So by the time we were seated, she was hot and sweaty, with a pasty sheen of unabsorbed sunscreen along one side of her nose and across her chin. Between the low blood sugar and perspiration, she was not a happy young lady, and it didn’t matter what day of the year it was.
But once our family friend showed up to help us celebrate, and the server had brought us tasty scones and Earl Gray tea, Simone perked up and became charming again.
It’s not like I go out of my way to honor my own self on Father’s Day — we don’t have a mom or significant other in the household to take charge and let me roll with the day, and I wouldn’t expect Simone to take that on. I’m plenty happy with her hilarious homemade cards. This year, she even made me a gorgeous piece of pottery in the summer art camp where she’s an intern.
No, I understand that, though I get to decide what we do with the day, there’s still a modicum of humility required. So my idea of a tasty brunch, followed by pedicures and a little downtown ramble, was just the right balance.
After we finished up our lamb gyros benedicts, we strolled across the street to an urban nail salon that felt more like a spa than our usual neighborhood place. The ladies who took care of us were especially sweet, even feigning disbelief (I’m fairly certain) when I told them that, no, Simone was not my sister. The experience was so relaxing, we realized caffeine would be in order before we did anything else. So, with feet smooth and moisturized, toes shiny and sparkly, the three of us wandered over to Union Station for lattes and brownies.
We spent the afternoon in the shade on the patio outside the station, watching babies totter around the field of fountains, laughing as the jets caught them in their round bellies. It felt indulgent to just sit for hours, being lazy and complacent, sipping at our drinks, and talking about nothing of deep importance. Simone was content to drift in and out of the conversation, having her own interactions on her phone, but also looking up to just be in the moment.
As the afternoon wound down, Simone and I took our leave of our friend and ambled homeward.
It had shaped up to be a particularly lovely Father’s Day, but it was also a melancholy one for me, knowing that we were headed into a time when I’d be spending fewer and fewer of them with my only child. After next summer, how often would we be in the same city for the holiday? If I felt a little weepy here and there (which, dammit, has become a recurring theme this summer), between missing my own dad and thinking about Simone’s near future, that was why.
I’ve realized that I’ve been remiss in one essential aspect of parenting—Simone can’t really cook. Sure, she can do up a killer omelet, and knows how to make ramen or mac ’n’ cheese, but she doesn’t actually have any full dinners that she can put together. It’s always just been easier for me to plan and prepare and serve up our meals, and I’ve begun to feel guilty that I haven’t put her to work in the kitchen more often. Later this summer, she’ll be responsible for one dish per week, and will help me shop for the ingredients and then cook for the two of us.
On Father’s Day, at her request, I taught her how to make Japanese curry with baby bok choy, because it’s one of her favorite things we eat on a regular basis. As we stood next to each other in the kitchen, me teaching her how to uniformly slice an onion, her asking how long the lamb needed to simmer, my heart felt buoyant like an over-inflated balloon, but heavy, too, like that same balloon filled with sand. It was so much, too much, and not enough, all at the same time.
And when it came to deciding what movie to watch together, Simone picked “Rogue One,” “because it’s a total father-daughter flick.” We crashed out on the couch, watching poor Jyn Erso get orphaned three times, our feet just barely touching. During each of those scenes, Simone would put out her hand for me to hold (which she also did when we watched another classic father-daughter flick “Armageddon” a couple nights earlier), and we’d sit like that during the tough moments of separation. Hopefully, I’ll never have to stay behind on a meteor plummeting to earth or martyr myself for the sake of the Rebellion, but Simone has no doubt that I’d do it for her (and humanity) if required.
All that afternoon and evening, the girl gave me a multitude of spontaneous hugs, asking again and again if I was having a happy Father’s Day.
Of course I was.
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