LAZY DADURDAY
By Joel Schwatrzberg
© 2007 Joel Schwatrzberg

"What do you guys want for breakfast?" I ask my three pajama-wearing kids one hopeful-looking Saturday. I have them all to myself the first morning of every weekend - what we call "Lazy Dadurday."

"What is there?" the kids ask absent-mindedly.

My children have faced the same breakfast choices since they were old enough to chew: frozen waffles, cereal, and toast. No more and no less. It's their version of death and taxes. Nonetheless, the sweetly inquisitive response - what is there? - is always the same. It's as if they'd been replaced overnight with benevolent alien imposters who'd carefully studied everything about us but our breakfast rituals.

Just to be sure, I ask seven year-old Evan and his four year-old sisters Mylie and Josie to pick a TV show. This creates a raucous argument that would inevitably result in the destruction of a remote control had I not already placed it in protective custody. Yep, they're my kids.

"Waffles. Cereal. Toast," I say like a Denny's server working his last hour.

"What else?" asks Evan.

"Can I have some soda?" Mylie says with wide eyes, on cue.

The déjà vu is nearly overwhelming.

Their mental lethargy isn't malicious. I call it "selective memoritis," a genetic syndrome that enables children to genuinely forget simple things at will. Experts -- and by that I mean Mommies -- tell me that this is very age-appropriate for the under-eight set.

For the 38 year-old set, however, it's far less appropriate. In male parents, selective memoritis often manifests as an abdication of responsibility, especially when it comes to uncomplicated parental to-dos like grooming, dressing, and feeding the kids. This explains why, under my charge, my children are still in pajamas at 11:15 am with the sun blazing cheerfully outside, discussing breakfast options - including soda - less than an hour from lunchtime. In essence, there are four kids in the house. I'm just a little taller, drive a car, and can pronounce "mortgage."

Several soggy bowls of Cheerios later, I ask Mylie to remind me whose turn is it to pick our weekly lunch spot. "It's MY turn," Mylie says with supreme confidence, just as she did last Dadurday and the Dadurday before that. She's perhaps the most symptomatic of all three kids.

But then, almost suddenly, my children transcend their forgetful, sedentary ways and start interrelating like little people. Evan patiently recounts the past few Dadurdays in precise detail, pointing out to Mylie that it's his turn to choose. She denies the obvious truth like a corrupt lawyer. As Evan plots his next move, Josie quietly and meticulously lines up her baby dolls, oblivious to her siblings and completely indifferent about whose turn it is. She probably figures she can get grilled cheese anywhere, but is easy to please nonetheless. Mylie finally relents, then brokers a Major League Baseball-like deal in which she gives up a future turn in exchange for influence in Evan's decision-making today. The agreement will never stick and he knows it.

Watching my kids go through their self-propelled maneuvering, I'm suddenly struck by their instant maturity. Like me, they can easily toggle from lazy lollygagging to sophisticated expressions and interactions. I wasn't giving them enough credit. While the IRS considers them mere "dependents" and "children" - both implying simple extensions of a parent - it's clear that they've also become independent, free-thinking kids. The transformation, to me anyway, is no less awesome than that of amphibians first climbing out of the pond and crawling toward the nearest TiVo player. And it all occurred the way a clock's minute-hand travels -- imperceptively, but absolutely.

"Dad, can we go now?" Evan says.

I blink. The TV is off and they're looking at me with expectant eyes.

They're ready to evolve - or at least have lunch.

We suit up and hit Evan's favorite Chinese restaurant for fried tofu and spring rolls. Like every Dadurday at the Chinese restaurant, we charm the waiter, play with the chopsticks, and form duck sauce dipping mounds. Mylie collects everyone's silverware, Josie plays with her ice, and Evan reads insignificant parts of the menu. We eat like peasants at the feast, and the girls delight at the crunchy fate-filled cookies that come in a little bamboo tray with the check.

All in all it's a pretty unremarkable Dadurday lunch.

"This is the BEST Lazy Dadurday EVER!" Mylie says with absolute certainty and a greasy grin. The other two cheer in agreement, waving forks of sticky rice.

I look into their shiny faces and affirm the absurd moment of memoritis as if it came from the King of Siam himself. "This is indeed the Best Dadurday ever," I pronounce, letting Mylie sip more of my Diet Pepsi.

We take a minute more to enjoy our sophisticated selves, then messily crack open our newly-arrived fortunes.

Television producer and freelance writer Joel Schwartzberg runs the site JESTTOKILL.COM .