Yesterday was Father's Day. The day we honor our fathers. The day our children honor theirs. The day we remember that without fathers, we would not be mothers.
In my house, this day can be a little odd.
You see, my daughter's father is dead. He died when she was 3 1/2, and she has very little memory of him.
Quite frankly, this is probably a good thing. He wasn't exactly a stellar example of humankind.
My sons' father is NOT dead, but for all the time they spend with him, he might as well be. If you ask Z-man about his dad, he will arch one eyebrow and say: "Who?"
This makes me sad. Not because I particularly like my ex, but because he made his bed with linens made of broken promises, inflexibility and distrust, and now he is forced to lie in it. Without the love and devotion of his children.
My stepdaughter's father is my husband. She worships the ground he walks on.
In fact, it is precisely this man -- my third husband -- who actually takes the role of father.
For his child ... and for mine.
It is this man who drives carpool for my daughter.
It is this man who rushes to the aid of my sons when their cars malfunction.
It is this man who accompanies me to every cheer competition and football game and graduation.
It is this man who treats my children as his own.
It is this man who my kids mean when they refer to "my parents."
It is this man who my daughter cheerfully wished a happy Father's Day yesterday, knowing that, although he had no part in her conception, he is indeed her dad.
And it is THIS man who stands by my side as we parent OUR children.
I don't know what I'd do without him.
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