And today I celebrate my children's Father. That word seems too formal. When Robin gets home from work, everyone goes running, screaming DADDY or DADADADADADA...must be the best moment of his day! Tired mama goes inside to finish (or start!) making dinner, and Daddy takes over, kung-fu fighting, lying on the ground waiting for a kiss from a princess, chasing and screaming and pushing on the swing. This man is patient and gentle and kind. He washes Violet's hair and endures the shrieking that accompanies this task, always with a calming word (I tend to dump the water over her just to get it overwith). He has worked jobs to support us even though he sometimes fantasizes about living on his own and being a musician. He was my rock through labour and birth and postpartum, and when Margot was sick.
Like every father worth his salt, he's doing his best to end unhealthy patterns, to do a bit better than the generations before him. I don't assume that he NEEDS to be here, as many fathers don't hang around when the going gets tough. I am grateful that he has signed on for this formidable task of raising these children. Loving them? That comes easily, and naturally. But sticking around to raise them....that's what makes a father a DADDY. Lucky us. A parent gets paid in little hands nestled in yours, soft wet kisses, the warmth and weight and peace of a child slumbering against your chest, the satisfaction of a "situation" diffused. In that case, this man is rich beyond his dreams. And so are we.