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by Dick Emmons
I t's my guess that, at this very mo
ment, most of the mothers in
the nation are propped up in bed
waiting smugly for their husbands to
bring them breakfast.
For this is Mother's Day the one
day in the year when virtually millions
of men who can't tell the difference
between bacon drippings and floor wax
feel constrained to serve the day's first
meal to the mothers of their children.
Mother's Day is always on a Sunday
so no male can escape the assignment.
The fact that the three-minute eggs
are cooked for eight minutes, that the
bacon shows great bulges of uncooked .
fat, and that the cold toast is incapable
of melting its icebergs of butter appar
ently makes no difference. The tribute,
however indigestible, has been paid
If the husband-father-cook is a new
one and, filled with zeal, brings in the
tray while singing "Happy Mother's
Day to You," so much the better.
That's the way it used to be around
our house. Perhaps because my sing
ing and cooking are equally poor, my
wife suggested just before Mother's
Day last year that we dispense with
the breakfast-in-bed routine and at
tempt some other form of honor.
"Like uh what?" I asked warily.
"Like me sleeping until noon," she
purred. "All I ask is that you keep the
children quiet and ward off all inter
ruptions until that time. If you succeed,
I will return the compliment on Fa
ther's Day."
I gleefully agreed.
Mother's Day, 1957, seemed to me
to begin earlier than ordinary days. It
was 6 a.m. by my luminous dial when
disorder broke loose in the room occu
pied by our 5-year-old twin boys.
Remembering my promise and the
subsequent reward, I eased out of bed
and slipped like a shadow into the boys'
room to put down the insurrection. At
6 a.m. my" vision is not quite 20-20
(it is more like 0-0) , and my first offi
cial act on entering the twins' room
was to sprawl over their electric train.
"Oh, boy!" Dickie squealed, noting
that I was down on my hands and
knees, "Daddy wants to give us a
horseback ride!" Before I could whin
ny, my back was filled with small
horsemen and, in exchange for their
promise to be quiet, I agreed to trot
them out to the kitchen.
"Listen, men," I whispered conspira
torially when my front hooves told me
we had reached the cold asphalt-tile
of the kitchen, "this is Mommy's Day
and we're going to let her sleep while
we get our own breakfast. Okay?"
"Can I make the toast, Daddy?"
Davie cried.
"I wanna shake the orange juice!"
Dickie insisted.
I beamed. This wasn't going to be so
hard after all. "Right," I said, "every
man take a job, and then we'll all sit
down and eat."
My memory of the next few minutes
is like that of a man watching a loco
motive bearing down upon him, with
his foot caught in the tracks.
Davie, pulling the automatic toaster
closer to the edge of the counter so
he could perform his chore, jerked the
thing too far and it crashed to the
floor, I made a leap to catch the toaster
with one hand while juggling four
eggs in the other. I lost both battles.
Dickie, perched on a nearby counter,
shook the orange juice vigorously
without remembering to put the plas
tic top on the shaker.
My daughter Ann appeared at that
moment, and the swinging kitchen door
caught my heel and sent me sprawling
into the goo.
At the next swing of the door, my
wife entered. "Something new, eh?
Getting breakfast on the floor?"
I'll say this for her, though: she
cleaned up the mess and didn't men
tion the incident again. That is, not
until 6:30 a.m. on Father's Day.
Family Weekly, May II, 1955