Loud Fathers

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Yesterday we were talking about kids, and my father said it always used to take him some time to appreciate us after he had been working long hours.  “Like jet-lag or something,” he said.  “You know, not like I didn’t love you or anything, but you were just so energetic and loud.  It would take me a few days to get used to it again.”  I thought about this, and then I compared it with my actual childhood, and I want to call bullshit.  My father was at least as loud as we ever were, and maybe more so.  I offer this regular mealtime memory as proof:

“Let’s play Oliver,” said my father, as we grabbed our plates so he could dish out the quiche my mother had made for dinner.

“How do you do that?” I asked.

“I’ll dish out your dinner, and then you ask in your best English Accent: ‘Please Sir, may I have some more?’ and then you’ll see what happens.”

“You go first,” my little sister told me.

I grabbed my plate from the table and took it to the stove, where my dad cut a generous piece of quiche and tipped it onto my plate.  “Is that enough?” he whispered.

I nodded

“You can say it now,” he said.

“Please Sir, may I have some more?”

A growl rose in his throat, from under his bushy beard.  “MORE?!  MORE?! You want some MORE?!!!”

I squealed.  The quiche jumped on my plate.  I scurried back to the table with a grin on my face.

“My turn!!  Oh, I want to do it!” said my sister.

“Well, bring your plate up then,” said my dad.

“And then I want to go again!” I said.

I’m sure there were some nights my mother thought we would never eat dinner.

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