The next morning, my wife steps out to get us breakfast.
The hotel we're staying at has a delicious "free" hot breakfast. Eggs, bacon, pancakes, French toast... you know, the works. I say "free," because they're not fooling anybody. You and I both know their just adding the cost of it to the price of the room. Still, the breakfast is delicious.
Despite this, my Dad tells her, "Nothing for me. I'm not hungry."
Not hungry? After all that fussing around he did in the bathroom last night? I thought for sure he'd have worked up an appetite.
"Should I bring him something anyway?" she asks me, not wanting her father-in-law to start his morning without the most important meal of the day. She's good that way.
I tell her not to.
"You know how he is," I tell her. "If Dad says he's not hungry, he's not hungry." She's still not sure, so I continue. "Besides, he's always saying you feed him too much."
That convinces her. Sort of. She turns back to my father, who's busy rubbing his feet.
"Are you sure you don't want breakfast, Dad?" she asks one last time, giving him a final chance to change his mind.
"I said I'm not hungry," he grunts, and continues rubbing his feet. That's his way of being polite.
My Dad? Not hungry? Is this the same man who plants himself at the head of the kitchen table in the morning and won't leave until a huge breakfast magically appears before him? And, after stuffing himself, counts the minutes until lunch magically appears? For a skinny old coot, my Dad can sure pack it away.
She looks at me. I look at her.
She shrugs her shoulders. I lift my eyebrows.
We look at my Dad again. We look back at each other again.
Finally, with a sigh, she leaves. Meanwhile, taking advantage of my few minutes of down time, I jump in the shower. I'm out by the time she returns with our breakfast. As I towel myself off, she tells me through the door that she's going to get us some coffee.
"That's fine, sweetie," I say and continue to make myself adorable for her.
When she returns, I hear her stop just as she enters the room.
"Honey," she calls in her come-and-see voice. So I come and see.
My Dad is sitting in front of our food and has eaten all of her breakfast. I say "hers," because I'm an bacon & eggs kind of guy. My Dad used to be one, too. Until my wife began to spoil him. In his prime, my father wouldn't have recognized a blueberry if you had poked him in the eye with one. Now that he's been introduced to my wife's five-star gourmet meals, he doesn't consider pancakes to be complete unless they've been smothered in whipped cream and some kind of sweet fruit topping.
Anyway...
"That was good," my Dad tells us, reaching over to my plate, grabbing my toast, and wiping up the last of my wife's egg yoke.
The hotel we're staying at has a delicious "free" hot breakfast. Eggs, bacon, pancakes, French toast... you know, the works. I say "free," because they're not fooling anybody. You and I both know their just adding the cost of it to the price of the room. Still, the breakfast is delicious.
Despite this, my Dad tells her, "Nothing for me. I'm not hungry."
Not hungry? After all that fussing around he did in the bathroom last night? I thought for sure he'd have worked up an appetite.
"Should I bring him something anyway?" she asks me, not wanting her father-in-law to start his morning without the most important meal of the day. She's good that way.
I tell her not to.
"You know how he is," I tell her. "If Dad says he's not hungry, he's not hungry." She's still not sure, so I continue. "Besides, he's always saying you feed him too much."
That convinces her. Sort of. She turns back to my father, who's busy rubbing his feet.
"Are you sure you don't want breakfast, Dad?" she asks one last time, giving him a final chance to change his mind.
"I said I'm not hungry," he grunts, and continues rubbing his feet. That's his way of being polite.
My Dad? Not hungry? Is this the same man who plants himself at the head of the kitchen table in the morning and won't leave until a huge breakfast magically appears before him? And, after stuffing himself, counts the minutes until lunch magically appears? For a skinny old coot, my Dad can sure pack it away.
She looks at me. I look at her.
She shrugs her shoulders. I lift my eyebrows.
We look at my Dad again. We look back at each other again.
Finally, with a sigh, she leaves. Meanwhile, taking advantage of my few minutes of down time, I jump in the shower. I'm out by the time she returns with our breakfast. As I towel myself off, she tells me through the door that she's going to get us some coffee.
"That's fine, sweetie," I say and continue to make myself adorable for her.
When she returns, I hear her stop just as she enters the room.
"Honey," she calls in her come-and-see voice. So I come and see.
My Dad is sitting in front of our food and has eaten all of her breakfast. I say "hers," because I'm an bacon & eggs kind of guy. My Dad used to be one, too. Until my wife began to spoil him. In his prime, my father wouldn't have recognized a blueberry if you had poked him in the eye with one. Now that he's been introduced to my wife's five-star gourmet meals, he doesn't consider pancakes to be complete unless they've been smothered in whipped cream and some kind of sweet fruit topping.
Anyway...
"That was good," my Dad tells us, reaching over to my plate, grabbing my toast, and wiping up the last of my wife's egg yoke.
Raising My Father
RisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com
jimduchene.BlogSpot.com American Chimpanzee
@JimDuchene
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