Where's my candy bar?

As long as I can remember, there's been an informal tradition in my church for Mother's and Father's Day.

Mothers get flowers. 

Fathers get candy bars.

For most of my single years, I'd been forced .... errrr ..... graciously offered to take a candy bar.  Not a real dilema for sure, but it felt a little strange. It wasn't completely inaccurate either. I had callings with the youth of the ward, which is basically an effort in parenting, minus the tax breaks.

But this year was different. While I'd only held the distinguished title of "Caleb's Dad" for six weeks, it would be the most well-earned Snickers I'd ever tasted.

Just one problem: There were no candy bars for the fathers in my ward.

Instead, we took Caleb to his first sacrament meeting with family to hear my cousin report on his mission to North Carolina. He shared some great experiences, and Caleb was very cooperative with the help of one bottle and one walk around the building.

He also helped with part of his Grandpa Jorgensen's Father's Day card ...

and got his first taste of major championship golf, which included a lesson in the dangers of drinking on the golf course.



Normally I don't like to give extra attention to the idiots of the world, but this made me laugh.  It capped off a day of strange sounds from the fans at this year's U.S. Open, including cries of "mashed potatoes" and "yabba-dabba-do."

This was also a first Father's Day for a couple other dads I know pretty well.  

Big brothers are supposed to be the first ones to experience life's "firsts," but I've been lucky enough to enjoy nieces and nephews first and watch these guys care for their kids. 

My son has some studly uncles.