Please Paula, for the love of White Lilly, just turn away.

My in-laws left this morning after a nice visit. It was the first time they've been to our new house. As soon as my mother-in-law put her purse down, my daughter had to give them the Tour de Grande.

"Here is my room that Mommy hasn't painted yet, except for the test spots of green vibe on the walls."

"This is your room, where you will sleep."

"That's the room where Mommy has pretty much thrown everything that hasn't been put away yet in an effort to swiftly make this place look presentable to family, friends, the UPS guy on the porch and Newman, when he occasionally makes an appearance."

The above quotes subjected to paraphrase.

We had a good time. There were games and shopping, playing, and a lot of spoiling (the good kind).

My father-in-law and husband painstakingly assembled one of those cedar fort/swing set structures designed by architects who flunked architecture school and now design cedar fort/swing sets.

When my husband tried to estimate the time it would take to build the fortress, he said rather confidently,"It'll take about three hours."

They woke up early Saturday morning and referred to the fifty-something steps it would take to complete the torture, I mean, construction.

About 9 hours and who-knows-how-many Big Gulps of water and Gatorade later, they finished the project, kicked off their shoes, came in to the cool AC and then collapsed, while our daughter, full of energy and sugar, tugged at her Daddy to "test it out."

Nothing like a full blown construction project with a million bolts (minus one missing bolt which required a trip to the home improvement store) to celebrate Father's Day weekend.

Which brings me to the sad title of this post- the even sadder Father's Day breakfast.

In an attempt to celebrate my husband's fine job of Daddyhood, I thought I'd make one of his favorites- homemade biscuits.

Sunday morning I got up, had a swig of coffee, and started breakfast. It wasn't anything fancy. Just biscuits, ham, scrambled eggs, and fruit. Something happened between the sifting of the flour and the pouring of the buttermilk and my biscuits turned out to be more like scones.

And I LIKE scones.

But only when I am wanting scones. I was wanting biscuits. I know what happened. I kneaded too much, and you biscuit makers know that kneading dough is a lot like teasing hair. One extra motion of the hand and there is just no turning back.

You have just ruin't your hair. Or your biscuit. Depending on whether you are at the kitchen counter or the bathroom counter.

The only time my biscuits were worse was the time we were first married and I accidentally used all purpose flour instead of self-rising. Can you say Hockey Pucks??

Lucky for me, we've been married 13 years and my husband, and my in-laws have had some of my better-tasting biscuits.

I'm so glad I wasn't the one building the fort.