Yesterday was Father’s Day.
I made out like a bandit. Both the kids have done personalized picture frames for me, and they’re both horrendous in that this is so awful that it’s cute kinda way.
My AudaciousSon’s frame, on the left, displays this poem:
Six years old: My daddy can do anything
10 years old: My dad knows a lot of stuff.
15 years old: I know as much as my dad.
20 years old: Dad doesn’t know.
30 years old: I wonder what dad thinks about it.
40 years old: Dad is not that dumb.
50 years old: Dad is right
60 years old: If only dad was still here.
Skipping the fact that according to this, I have about 7 years before my AudaciousSon thinks of me as an idiot and let’s not mention that I will not reach 90. Moving right along. On the plus side, the frame itself is full of hearts, and a lion represents my manliness. The backwards e in my name is actually an upside down G because they ran out of e.
My CutieDaughter frame, on the right as an acrostic with my name:
She glued little circles on the frame, shaped like a sun, some bugs and a flower.
Any art critique would give these frames a 3/10 or worst. I give those full marks, because that’s what being a dad is all about. The wobbly ashtrays, the pen cups too small to hold pens, the cracked valet trays, the painted rocks. I love them all more than anything else I own.
Of course, I’m convinced that one day, the Zadorables are going to look back on these gifts and think of them as dumb, weird or plain ugly.
Me? I’m just trying to keep that day from happening any time soon.