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Our kids didn’t ask to be here. They didn’t make a “Father Request” on some warped form of genetic Facebook. There was some drinking, mommy forgot to take her pill, daddy didn’t pull out and 9 months later they showed up with our eyes, looking for direction.
Being a father wasn’t a job we applied for but we took it, oftentimes supremely under-qualified. We recognize it doesn’t matter if we discover how to split the fuckin’ atom using a garden hose and some kerosene, if we raise an asshole – we’re an asshole.
We recognize we’re defining the words Father, Man, and Love.
We’re not too much of a man to confess to our children, “I’m not quite sure” or “I’ll do what I can.”
We tell our daughters to put on some clothes because the internet is littered with “porn stars” whose father never told them to. We tell our sons don’t promise – just do it. Because your word is your bond and your name is mine so you better honor them both.
We’re willing to get called asshole. Call us what you wanna – Head of the House, King of the Castle or H.N.I.C. But to our kids, call when you need to cry. Call when you want to laugh. Call when he gets out of line. Call when she breaks your heart. Just call because we’re on the clock.
We haven’t made all the right decisions but want the last words we say to our children to be, “That’s everything I know. Good Luck. Daddy loves you.”
So raise your glass, tap some … WHAT?, or however you choose to celebrate, but it’s Fathers Day – our day.
Dedicated to Ella & Cole — Love The Asshole
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Photo Credit: Getty Images