I don’t know why I picked this image – neither my father nor my husband have ever been much in the DIY department. Maybe it was the cookie cutter. One of my favorite photos captured my husband – in his capacity as Santa’s helper – puzzling over the directions to one of those big plastic playhouses, while my father sat in a nearby chair offering helpful hints.
But both of these men in my life excelled at fatherhood. Not models of perfection, of course, but good, decent souls who would do just about anything for their children, and the kids knew it. When I failed to graduate from college in the standard four years, my dad said nothing but “Do what you have to to finish.” For my brother, who gave us all a few gray hairs, my dad made it to every court appearance or police station necessary. And with my own sons – why is it always the boys who end up at the police station? – when Officer Bob called late at night, my hubby would retrieve them, of course, then talk to them at length about why they’d done whatever stupid idiot crazy thing they’d done that landed them in the hands of the police.
