They would scramble out of bed early that Sunday morning—well, not too early—and tell me to stay in bed because they were going to go make breakfast and serve it to me.

It sounded like an offer too good to pass up, so I would settle in and wait.

Judging by the clanging of pots and pans, the whir of the blender and the snap of the toaster, you would have thought they were creating a feast that would put Emeril to shame.

Some half an hour later they would show up at the bedroom door, one delivering the Sunday newspaper and the other carefully balancing a tray filled with dishes, silverware and cups.

The meal—cold toast, soggy Cheerios, weak coffee and warm orange juice—didn't quite match the expectations. But that never mattered much, because their eyes sparkled with the pleasure of their accomplishments, and I was content to stare into those smiling blue eyes as I choked down every last bite of the dreadful food they put before me.

"How is it, Daddy?" they would ask. And I would reply, "Oh, it's just delicious!"

"We could make you breakfast again next Sunday," they would squeal.

"Uh, you better not," I explained, scrambling for a reason. "You wouldn't want to disappoint Mommy ... you know how much she likes making breakfast." (Mommy just shook her head disapprovingly and glared at me.)

That's how Father's Days used to be in our house ... a little breakfast in bed, the newspaper delivered to my bedside and a couple of adorable homemade cards featuring the outline of a tiny hand, an original self-portrait or a picture of a five-legged dog.

Now that the boys are grown, it's quite a different story. I'm lucky if they remember Father's Day at all!

Hey, it's not like I want a card with the outline of one of their monstrous hands or a picture of the dog (now that they know he only has four legs). But a Hallmark would be nice.

And they don't need to deliver the morning paper to my bedside—just don't leave the sections spread all over the family room.

But I told them the other day, "Breakfast in bed would be nice."

"Oh, I don't like your chances there, Pop," said the youngest.

"Hey, I'm not talking about anything fancy," I explained. "Just some toast and coffee ... maybe an omelette ... possibly a couple of sweet rolls."

"How do Pop Tarts and a glass of Tang sound?" asked the oldest.

"Not great," I admitted. "Maybe we should just go out to breakfast instead."

"That's a great idea," said the youngest. "We'll take you out for a very special Father's Day breakfast this Sunday."

"It doesn't have to be anything real special," I said. "Just Baker's Square or Denny's would be fine."

"No, let's go somewhere really nice," said the oldest. "How about the Fairmont?"

"Well, that sounds really nice," I admitted, "but that could get pretty expensive."

"No problem," said the oldest. "I'm sure they take American Express."

"But you don't have an American Express card," I said.

"Yeah," he said, "but you do."

"You mean I'm going to have to pay for my own Father's Day breakfast?" I asked.

"Well, you don't expect me to pay, do you?" the youngest moaned. "I'm a starving college student!"

"Yeah, you look like you're starving," I said, then turned to the oldest and asked, "How about you?"

"Hey, I'm a starving schoolteacher," he whimpered.

"You live at home!" I shrieked.

Then I asked, "So if I have to pay, how is it exactly that you're taking me to breakfast?"

"Well, I'm making the reservations," said the oldest.

"And I'll drive," the youngest chimed in. "Uh, do you have a few bucks for gas?"

It's almost enough to make you miss the cold toast and soggy cereal!

Want to talk? Call me at 408.354.3110, ext. 31, or drop me a note at dsparrer@svcn.com.