Mulligan Monday

Somewhere between six and six-thirty on Sunday night, I declared a mulligan - on Father's Day. It began with a postponed trip to the grocery store (okay, it began with my tendency to procrastinate and pretend that national holidays - or those celebrated by over 50 countries, to be more precise - will wait on me to make up my mind, channel some energy from a pink, drum-playing bunny, and devise a fool-proof plan. But why get lost in specifics?). Plan finally in mind Sunday evening, Nathan and I were ready to head out the door. Audrey was not.



Audrey, let's go. Put on your shoes.
She put on the one pair of shoes I keep hiding because they are too big for her. (Somehow, these shoes keep getting found).
No. Your tennis shoes.
She put on a pair of boots thrown into the closet the day before due to rain (also too big for her, because the rain boots that fit her have hidden themselves so well that no one can find them).
Audrey, I don't have time to wait. Put on your tennis shoes.
She put on a pair of my boots.
Audrey, I'll see you later. I have to go.
I go tell Jason (playing the rare daytime video game - this coupled with a nap was Father's Day gift enough in his book) that Audrey will be staying with him while Nathan and I run to the store. Then I left her, crying in my boots.



By the time I got to the checkout line, it was past six, Jason was calling just to check in, and I was calling a mulligan (I don't play golf, so I should just say do-over, but mulligan sounds like such a jumbly mess in your mouth that it seems more appropriate). I got home, whipped something together that we called dinner, and called it a day.

Monday, we set about doing over. We got our aprons, our faces, our fingertips, and the door handle dirty while we played in chocolate. We tried out new recipes (grilled corn on the cob and The Pioneer Woman's mocha brownies) and relied on one tried and true (red potatoes diced, coated with a mix of olive oil, Italian spices, salt and pepper baked on 500 for 20 minutes or until crispy on the outside/soft in the middle). We made man food (okay, mocha brownies are on the edge of man food, I'll give you that). The man helped by manning the grill. We ate at a decent time. No boots were hurt.

It wasn't Father's Day, just Monday. But sometimes a Monday feels so good (especially one spent thinking of a certain special Daddy).