Pillsbury Dough Brat

I mentioned in my previous "Father Friday" post that my Dad made breakfast for my Mom and me every morning before swim practice and school. What I didn't tell you was that this wasn't always very pleasant for my father, as I was decidedly NOT a morning person in my youth (and still not today). One time he bore the brunt of my selfish adolescence and it became a family story that he tells about me any chance he can get. Here it is...

Mornings were never nice to me. It was always too cold and too bright and too loud for at least an hour after crawling out of bed. But being the dedicated swimmer that I was, I was up at 5:00am to eat, get things together for school, drive to school and be in the pool by 6:00am. One of the things that was never fun was getting out of bed. My mother employed a tactic that she refers to as "over-exaggeration" (some call this lying, but not my mother).

"Dave, it's 5:15, you're going to be LATE." (It was really 5:03).

"You need to leave in FIVE minutes, mister, you better get up NOW!" (with 35 minutes to spare).

"Your food's getting cold--you're father's getting angry." (Father not even in the kitchen yet).

So after the usual frustrating jolt out of my peaceful slumber, I threw on my Uni-bomber-like going-to-the-pool outfit. Obviously, since it was dark, and early, this didn't need to be fashionable. It consisted of thick sweatpants, a hoodie, a thermal hat, socks and a pair of booties (yes, I drove to practice in my booties, sue me). In the house, it was way too bright, so I generally threw on a dark pair of sunglasses for breakfast in case Dad was reading the paper. This particular morning, he was.

"Good morning, Cool-Ray," he said as I walked into the room. I was more than half-asleep and sporting black Ray-Bans and a stiff zombie gait.

"Mmm," I managed to eek out.

He nodded towards a piping hot plate of cinnaom rolls, freshly baked, dripping with icing and said, "Your food's on the stove."

Now before I take you any further, it's imporant to know that this was my favorite pre-workout breakfast--an entire can of eight Pillsbury cinnamon rolls (you know, the ones where you popped open the middle of the can with a spoon?). Usually, he made one can for me, and another can for himself and my mother. I always had eight for myself, and my parents would polish off the rest, with two or three left over for a snack after school. It's probably also important to note that as a 16 year-old, I didn't exactly have the appreciation of my father's daily efforts in the kitchen that I have today.

I slowly grabbed the plate of rolls and sat at my usual place at the table where a napkin and freshly-poured orange juice was waiting for me. "Mmm," I groaned as I slid into the chair. But after 30-40 seconds of silence (i.e., me not scarfing down my food) my Dad peeked over his sports section.

"What's wrong, are they burned?" he asked genuinely. I kept staring at the plate. "There's not a hair on there is there?"

I slowly took off my sunglasses and let my eyes adjust. I meant business. And with the seriousness of someone who had just encountered the worst injustice of his lifetime, I said to him,

"Um, there are only seven rolls here."

Now to my Dad's credit, he did not smash the plate of rolls over my head, or stuff all seven of them in my ass as he probably should have. Instead, he took the high road, and defended his actions. "Now come on, Dave. It was our only can, and I just had ONE," he said.

"But I NEED these to make it all the way through practice," I pleaded--as serious as the heart attack I'm sure my Dad was about to have listening to such an utterly ridiculous conversation.

"Ya know, if you're that hungry, you can go in the kitchen and make a bowl of cereal. But you better get to eatin' before I eat the rest of them for you." And with those words, the sports section of the Houston Post went back up in front of his face and the conversation was over. Papa Bear had spoken.

I carefully slipped my sunglasses back on and gobbled those rolls like they were my last meal. Thank God my Dad was in a good mood that morning, or I'm sure it would have been.