There are certain sounds you want your hubby to wake up to on Fathers day.

The sound of bacon frying? Coffee perking? Excited kids preparing their gifts for dad.

Things like that.

NOT the sound of vomit hitting the floor.

Ever.

I am not sure what the universe is trying to tell us with these washed out holidays, but after my crummy mothers day, this fathers day took the cake.

Well. . .  not the cake. No one could eat cake.

The kids “dropped like flies” with the stomach flu all weekend. The dude in the middle of the night friday, and middle kid midnight saturday with the eldest going down around 6am fathers day.

Our plans for spending the day on the boat, in the sunshine, on rocking seas was quickly squashed.

Not to mention, no man (or parent for that matter) should be scrubbing vomit off a bunk bed at 6am. Before they had coffee.

But we did. We scrubbed, and set the girls up on the couch with a bowl each while the little dude and I tried to save the day for dad.

And it wasn’t too bad, really. Dad got to clean his truck in preparation for the week, and we had the ducks out swimming in the kiddie pool and fluffing their feathers in the sunshine. We kept dad supplied with cold beer and ample conversation, and I got the piles (and piles) of laundry done and on the line.

It wasn’t exactly what he was going for on his once-a-year day of dad, but it worked.  He certainly felt like a father as he scrubbed the floors . . . right?