Father's Day
(A Wife's Perspective)

Has there ever been a more pathetic holiday? A holiday that so effectively shouting "Aw c'mon! Me, too!

Father's Day gets the prize for the number one afterthought holiday, narrowly beating out "Boxing Day", whatever the hell THAT is. The trophy, which currently resides in the Afterthought Museum (located in a portable trailer behind the Smithsonian,) affirms its unique worth and importance in today's society. You can tell, because it says so at the bottom: "This affirms Father's Day's Unique Worth and Importance in Today's Society."

I'm sure it started out innocently enough, on a mahogany table at one of those major card-schlepping conglomerates. It was an ingenious gimmick. NO ONE would publicly deny that fathers deserved every bit as much credit as Moms (publicly being the operative word there.) Especially, they mused, when by "credit," one meant folded paper greetings that, while full-price, only need to be half witty, since nobody actually reads the inside of them, anyway.

And it was a sure bet, because no Mom in her right mind would fail to support the new holiday, for fear of losing the perks that Mother's Day offers. (I.e., collect phone calls.) And we all know that women account for approximately 138% of greeting card sales.

They screwed up, though, when they put Father's Day AFTER Mother's Day. Either they totally missed the scoop on practical functionality of the typical male brain, or they used reverse-reverse psychology, in an evil attempt to out-fox us.

At any rate, the result is that Dads, on their special day, get treated with the consideration and respect hashed out as a minimum acceptable baseline amid shouting, crying, sulking, and yes, sometimes a little blood - after the annual (perennial) failure of their Mother's Day efforts.

Consider, Dads ALWAYS get a card from their wives. Despite the fact that we Moms (every year) get ZIP for pushing the melon-headed progeny of our apparently ill chosen husbands out the most delicate of orifices. What we DO get is the not-so-subtle reminder that we are NOT their mothers. As evidenced by their sputtering confusion, wide-eyed shrug, and grade-A idiot question: "What? You're not my MOTHER…"

Since the lesson they get after a moron remark like that STICKS pretty well in their heads, at least after the swelling goes down, men DO seem to be able to retain this information for a remarkably long period. Usually about 364 days.

And every year we Moms are forced (sigh) to re-issue that lesson to our poor wayward husbands. This includes not only the inevitable Mother's Day meltdown performance, but also the follow-up DEMONSTRATION of how this type of holiday OUGHT to be observed. Meaning they get the royal treatment, the accolades, and all the credit that we wanted a month earlier. But got to do laundry, instead.

So, Father's Day is a day of fishing, or golfing, or whatever men do with their free time (we've forgotten what that was like, haven't we?) And we wait on them in the appropriate agreed-upon manner, as tradition dictates, from dawn till dusk. Sparing no effort, and duly instructing our children to do likewise.

While the male genius of this scheme humbles me, I'm reminded that a group of monkeys typing for long enough can eventually produce the collective works of Shakespeare. Since Father's Day is a recent invention, requiring more than 1900 of the AD-type years, and ALL of the BC ones, it really could qualify as a lucky coincidence.