The husband and I have been together for more than a couple of Fathers Days.
In the beginning, it was a day where he would call his dad, say “Happy Farter’s Day!”, laugh at his own joke, and repeat yearly.
Then we had some kids.
From his very first minute as a father,
he was like the Rain Man of dads. He just got it. Calm, rational, loving, full of skills and emotions I didn’t know (and maybe he didn’t know) he had.
We had another one.
And now I get to watch him be a dad to a girl. Which is different. Maybe harder. Undeniably beautiful.
He’s just really, really good at being a dad.
Because tonight, I think I may have stumbled across one of the archetypal “Father” roles I may have to wrench away from him.
Dude, the “Father-Son” talk may have to be removed from your purview.
A conversation from earlier tonight:
B: Was I at your wedding?
G: No. We hadn’t made you yet.
B: Made me? What, like with hammers and stuff?
O: Oh, there was hammering all right…
Happy Farter’s Day anyway, dear.