On Saturday, I said to Tom, "Tomorrow's Father's Day, and I'm thinking that the kids are all going to in-laws, so I think we'll be alone."
"That's fine," he said.
So early Sunday morning, I made pancakes and bacon for breakfast and we had a nice morning listening to classical music. We stayed around the phone, in case the boys called to wish Tom a Happy Father's Day.
No one called.
By afternoon, I was mad at my sons and myself, because I raised those sons and if they weren't calling on Father's Day, it was my fault. I mentioned this small rage to Tom, and eventually he got mad himself.
So we were generally huffing and puffing around late Sunday afternoon. We ate lemon pie, which helped a little.
Evening, we sat on our front porch. This time of year, our neighborhood is gorgeous, but we were both grumpy.
Then I had this thought, which I said aloud, "Maybe today isn't Father's Day."
Tom said, "It's always the middle of the month."
"I'm going to look," I said.
So I went into the kitchen and googled Father's Day 2015 and it said June 21.
"HA!" I yelled. "It isn't Father's Day. It's next week! HA! HA!" I returned to the front porch and sat down.
"I'm still mad," Tom said.
"But it isn't Father's Day!" I said.
"But I thought it was."
The neighborhood glimmered in pink and sparrows sang from the pear tree.