Pere

I don’t say it often enough to Mogo, I don’t mention it between work and dinner and bedtime and a little time for ourselves.

Mogo, you are a fantastic father.

Many times as parents we think we need to “do” things to be good parents, that we must be teachers, musicians, artists, chefs, scientists. That every moment can be taught and made valuable. I’m one of those parents, finding a place to insert a little knowledge no matter what.

Some parents are able to ride childhood,  allow it to blossom and bloom through benevolent neglect and a pointed finger directed outside. Some parents will roll on the floor and let their children bounce on them like Tigger’s, until, inevitably, they get hurt while giggling.

Mogo is one of these parents.

He can take them to the park and let them play for an hour when I wouldn’t even make it 15 minutes. He can get down on the floor and play, setting up intricate train arrangements for the resident conductor. He brings home comics for his daughters, explaining the back stories. He makes them hamburgers whenever they ask.

I have sometimes high expectations for all of us, too high. And I forget to remind him how much his daughters eyes glow for him, and how empty this house would be if he was ever gone from it. I forget to remind him how much I love the father in him, how pure and simple this life we lead is, and how I adore it despite myself.

Happy Father’s Day Mogo.

(P.S-Mogo is also the reason that Rosalyn has, for the most part, mastered the potty this week. If that isn’t kick ass fatherhood, nothing is.)