Father’s Day this year was a quiet sort of day. Between the triple digit heat and humidity so thick you could bottle it, we pretty much just stayed indoors all day. By late afternoon, the kids were going stir crazy.
“Okay,” I said from the kitchen table. “Get out.”
The six-year old stopped spinning long enough to look shocked. “What?”
“Go outside and play. You guys need to go outside.”
“Oh,” he shrugged. “Okay.”
He opened the sliding glass door, then closed it, then opened it, then closed it.
“Go!” I said.
He opened it again and went outside. Then closed it and opened it, and again, and again.
“Stop!” I shouted. “Stop playing with the door. Just leave it closed.”
He laughed, closed the door, and skipped away. I tried to pretend that I hadn’t heard the laughing. Then I saw my five-year old standing and watching. “You too,” I said. “You go outside too.”
“But I don’t want to,” he said.
“Go outside and play. It’s time. You need some exercise.”
“But I can’t,” he shouted.
“Cause the door is closed.” he said. Then he burst out laughing.
I love Father’s Day.