The Boy Who Would Drink No Punch

I'm really looking forward to Father's Day, in two weeks, because Daniel owes me a very special present: a coffee mug, like so many others bestowed on this solemn day, especially to coffeeholics like me, but with a very distinctive text:  "Worst Daddy Ever."

Daniel conferred this title on me about a year ago or so - I forget which crime against humanity inspired it, but it probably had something to do with a dessert which he merited but never received or something along those lines.  Ian, several years ago, came up with a similar description for me, but, as one would expect from Ian, it was far more nuanced:  he told me that all other Daddies are better than me.  I appreciated the accentuation of the positive in the phrasing itself.  It wasn't that I was a bad Daddy, certainly - just that all other Daddies in the world happened to be better.

Amy was shocked by Ian's announcement, although she shouldn't have been; it turned out that my least-good-in-the-world status stemmed from my failure to help Mommy around the house.  I don't know where this perception had come from - aside from my own unregenerate sloth - but Amy actually seemed to disagree with Ian's assertion.

But back to Daniel.  I have outdone myself, in my badness, as of Saturday evening, and this breaking-of-the-record took place at Wendy's Drive-Through.  Daniel, Madeleine and I were coming back from a spectacular visit to an indoor playground .  The place itself was nifty - $11 for the three of us, with my coupon.  They had a bounce house, for Daddies as well as children, and Daniel and Madeleine ran themselves practically into the ground, and actually played together very nicely, and not too long after we got home, Daniel asked me to put him to bed.  Money very well spent.  But I digress again.

So the two of them were thirsty on the way home - especially Madeleine - so I had the wisdom to stop at Wendy's drive-through, instructing them that they could have juice or water, repeating it like a propagandist until I thought it had been assimilated.  But unfortunately, at the drive-through, the loud-speaker is just that - very loud - and the children heard the lady tell me that the only juice they had was apple juice, but they did have punch.  Overzealous cashiers can be quite a curse.

But it turned out that this was an excellent opportunity for Daniel, because he had never in his life tasted punch before.  I had a silly idea that Wendy's punch might have things in it besides fruit juice, sugar and water - perhaps even dyes, with numbers, to make the punch the kind of red that probably doesn't wash out of clothing.  And I'm not the "idea man" in this matter; Amy feels very strongly about it, and I thought maybe she would be even more upset than me at the thought of the children drinking Wendy's fruit punch.

So I did the wrong thing.  I made him choose water or apple juice.  Even though he had never even had a taste of punch before, in his entire life.  I questioned that last point, and the distinction turned out to be minimal, if  surprising.  You've really never tasted punch before?

"Except the organic kind, which I don't like."  It turns out that Amy is in on this conspiracy to deprive Daniel of non-organic punch.

But I still didn't get him his punch, and it was only as we were pulling out of Wendy's parking lot that I realized the enormity of this oversight:

"My one chance to try punch is wasted!  I'll never get to try punch!"

And furthermore:

"I should have got a toy!"

Most fathers want their sons to drink punch.  But then again, all other fathers are much, much better than me.

I want my mug!

(May 25, 2013)