It was a good day.

All my children remembered and wished me well.

Mostly they remembered good things.

Some, even great things.

Some… suspicious.

For a lot of years, I had a late start to my day.

That meant I made breakfast and packed their lunches.

They weren’t great breakfast eaters.

Often, I had to deliver it directly to their rooms—if they ate at all.

I always suspected their lunches ended up in lockers.

Who knows what they actually ate?

One time—for someone—I packed a baggie of uncooked brown rice.

That seemed a little light, so I added a can of stewed tomatoes.

No can opener.

Nothing else.

Later, I learned they usually ate my lunches.

Except on that day.

Sometime after that, I gave my son a can of chili.

No opener. Again.

I am, I admit, perverse.

The best proof? The chicken feet incident.

My wife had bought a kosher chicken.

While cleaning it, she screamed.

They had stuffed the cavity with sweet meats—and chicken feet.

She handed me the extras.

Later, while the kids were watching TV in the next room, I was doing dishes.

I said loudly, “This water’s too hot…”

Then I screamed in pain: “Help me!”

They came running—only to find me with chicken feet protruding from my sleeves,

grimacing, trembling, asking for assistance.

I told you—I’m perverse.

Then there was the mop-head incident.

It was a Saturday.

The game was: follow Dad everywhere and bug him.

I ducked into the garage.

Seconds later, the brood came charging in.

But instead of me, they met a tall creature

with a mop on its head and outstretched claws.

They fell backward in a tangled heap.

Ah, Father’s Day.

Good memories.