Father's Day

My husband is an incredible father.

He changes diapers. Even the icky (and tricky) meconium newborn poops. In fact, he was the executor of each very first diaper change (while I giggled wearily from the hospital bed).

He gets up with crying babies in the middle of the night. Not all of the time, but enough to make a huge difference for a sleep deprived mama.

On weekends he really steps up his game. Bath time, breakfast time, outdoor play time. You name it, he can do it.

He can and often does fly solo. That is, he is home taking care of the girls without me so that I can have my girls’ night or book club, or whatever.

He knows how to hold a newborn. Every woman loves to see her man cradling their infant.

He reads to the girls almost every night. Girly books, like Disney Princesses. He read A.A. Milne’s Hundred Acre Wood to my pregnant belly.

He can soothe a crying baby to sleep as well as I can. In fact, he is doing so right now as I type this.

Every day he works a job that he doesn’t like in order to support a family that he loves.

He can calm his irate toddler. He can be firm and he can be gentle. And his patience can occasionally stretch much farther than mine.

He can calm his irate wife. Sometimes.

He is the first to sacrifice and the last to complain.

He will condescend to sip tea with Minnie Mouse, Care Bear, and Curious George. He does indeed sit down in a tiny pink chair at a tiny pink table and serve all sorts of pretend delicacies in tiny plastic dishes. But don’t tell him I told you.

He puts up with much crying, fit throwing, and attitude. And the kids can be pretty bad, too.

He is one lone male in a house full of females. God help him.

When we learned the gender of our first born, he cried happy tears. He so wanted a girl. Now he has two.

He can’t make their outfits match to save his life, but he can get them dressed.

He doesn’t prepare them vegetables, but he can get them fed.

But most of all, my husband adores his little girls.

And they know it.