When I was growing up, we had that on a plaque in our house. I always really liked it. It was certainly true of my own dad. He was my playmate, my provider, my hero. He worked hard both at his job and at raising us. I'm sure there was never a dull moment. I mean, the man taught me how to drive stick for goodness sake. Well, to be fair, he pretty much gave up trying to teach me, handed me the keys and said, "Go drive until you figure it out." But that was only after hours and hours in the passenger seat while I went down with the gas pedal, up with the clutch, stall. Down with the gas pedal, up with the clutch, stall. Repeat.
My poor dad. He hung in there like a trooper. He changed cloth diapers. He taught me how to ride a two-wheeler. He attended several father/daughter dances even though it meant he often had to be in costume. He took us on vacations galore. He pretended not to see the price tags on my prom dresses. He gave me away.
He's my son's best friend.
Thank you, Dad. I know that anyone can be a father...but it takes someone special to be a dad.
I found that quote online on a onesie. I ordered it even though it was more than I would normally spend on something my son will outgrow in a matter of
seconds weeks. But it was one of those things you just have to have. It arrived in the mail over a month ago and I've been dying to put Matthew in it ever since. This morning I got him dressed and then said, "Matthew is wearing one of your Father's Day presents." I promptly turned him around.
Any man (okay, most men) can father a child. But not every man can be a daddy. On the day Matthew was born, I spent the majority of the nighttime hours retching violently. (Is anyone really surprised?) It was Troy who fed him and changed him while I was afraid to allow myself near him with what I thought might be the plague. Before Matthew started sleeping through the night, it was Troy who took one of the two feedings. It is Troy who reminds me that if we lose everything fighting for our son, it'll be alright. He's his daddy.
This isn't Troy's first time around the fatherhood block. He adores his precocious almost three year old. The one who, today, in an occupied public restroom, said to me in a loud voice, "Mommy, do you have a penis?" When I quietly told him no he continued with his line of questioning, "Mommy, what do you have?" Thankfully my silence wasn't followed by more questions. This time.
The one who, after a string of poor choices that earned him a, You're going to get punished when we get home, from his dad replied with a chipper and expectant, "Happy Father's Day!" He knows how to cut his dad off at the knees.
I've always wanted to be a mommy and it was of great importance to me that I find someone who always wanted to be daddy. Suffice it to say, I found him.