Chopsticks for Your Oatmeal?

Father’s Day just happened.  It was my 16th as a dad; my 48th as a son.  And this year brought a new twist.

Shopping for my Dad on Father’s Day is as easy as typing Zingerman’s into Google.  Most will recognize the name as belonging to the famous deli in Ann Arbor.  They have cornered the Father’s Day gift market, at least for my Dad, with the brilliant assembly of the Zingerman’s Corned Beef Reuben Sandwich Set, complete with the best meat, cheese, and bread needed to make a killer Reuben with all the fixings and trimmings.  Even better, my Dad discovered this year, the sandwiches hit another level when one actually follows the directions for heating the bread, steaming the meat and grilling the sandwich to perfection.

Each year, I feel a little guilty about sending my Dad his annual sandwich kit.  It feels like I’m taking the easy way out.  Not much thought or creativity involved at this point.  But each year, he reassures me and affirms my decision by sending a beaming selfie of himself with this full box of sandwich makings. 

A tried and true Father’s Day tradition at this point.  Well done, Zingerman’s.  

It was my Father’s Day experience this year, however, that broke some new ground.

My oldest son, you see, was licensed recently by the State of Michigan to operate a vehicle.  While this fact will likely take years off my life as his father, it also allowed his mother to tell him to “take your brother to the store and buy something for your father for Father’s Day.” 

And with this instruction went all the wonderfully thoughtful and generous gifts my wife has purchased, wrapped to perfection, and put my sons’ names on for the past 15 years.  They are on their own now.

So, Father’s Day afternoon comes, and I’ve just sat on the couch after a late lunch and few beers to “close my eyes for a bit.”  This is what people who are getting old call naps.  I can hear the never very subtle conversation from the other room between my wife and boys trying to organize the “spontaneous” giving of the gifts.  My boys walk in, each carrying a package.  One was a single box, the other was three boxes stacked high, all impeccably wrapped and tied perfectly with a bow.  (My wife has not outsourced the gift wrapping to the boys, yet.) 

“What’s this?  You shouldn’t have gotten me anything,” borrowing from a line my father has used since I was my boys age.

First, I open the single box.  This one is from my wife.  Inside, as always, are three simple and thoughtful gifts.  The kind of items that only come from someone who knows you and who listens to and remembers the things you ask in passing.  Like, “do we have a cherry pitter?”

“Thanks, bub,” I say, as one does to his wife.

“Now open ours,” my youngest says as he takes the honors and starts to unwrap the gift himself.  “Open this one first.  It’s from me.”

I pull back the paper to find a Ted Lasso bowl and a set of chopsticks.  

“It’s for ramen,” he says.  “But I thought you could use it for your oatmeal.  I really just got it because it had Ted Lasso on it.  I got it at Meijer!”

“Thanks, bud!”  Not to be confused with bub.

On to box number two.  A yoga block.

“It’s for working out,” my oldest says.  “We got it at Dick’s.”

Time for me to try some yoga.

And box number three.  An ab roller.  One of those things you hold onto for dear life with both hands, get on your knees and then slowly roll out in front of you trying not to lose your front teeth from crashing your face into the floor.

“We got that at Dick’s, too.”

“Well, this is awesome,” I said.  “I’ve always seen these, and now I can try to do it!”

A few years ago, well before my oldest was even daydreaming about driving, he asked me, “Hey daddy, when is Father’s Day?”

“It was last week,” I replied.

“Oh shoot!  Nevermind,” he said.

With a little coaxing from their mom, they remembered Father’s Day this year.  And through a little vehicular independence, a cash card I subsidize, and their individuality, I received three awesome little gifts that they themselves thought about and thought I would enjoy.

It all made me grateful that I’m not a fan of Reubens.