Dashiell is asleep on the couch.  Roni too, in spite of the pent up energy that comes from not having had enough exercise.  Chris is listening to music while puttering in the kitchen, getting dinner ready.

Me, I sit here typing, playing back my first Father’s Day as a dad.  For whatever reason the day is defined by smells more than anything else.  Eggs benedict and buttermilk pancakes,  a reminder of a delicious, albeit chilly, brunch with the family and in-laws at McKay Cottage.  Juniper and trail dust, and the slightly peaty aroma of the river, picked up while walking home after our meal.  We saw ducks and swans sleeping peacefully with their heads tucked under their wings.  Dashiell too slept, as he bumped along in his stroller.

Strongest of all is the odor of honest work: tung oil, steel wool, saw dust and, yes, even a bit of sweat.  After napping for a couple hours I spent the remainder of the afternoon prepping Dashiell’s crib for its final coat of finish.  My fingertips are a bit raw from the steel wool, something I am reminded of with each keystroke.  Not painfully so; it is just a slightly different sensation than usual.  As for the crib, I am relieved to be so close to being done.  It has taken longer to complete than I would have liked, but is still in time for to give plenty of good service.  It is a crib to be proud of, I think.  One that will serve my son well, and any future generations that happen along.