It’s September 26th
You have officially been a father for eight years, today.
I can remember when I knew I wanted to have your babies: That impromptu camping trip to Millerton Lake when you made me a fire from an entire tree you chopped down. We were all snuggled up in the tent and you had already fallen asleep. I was lying next to you, naming our unborn children in my head.
Jayden, Jackson, Jeremy Jr…
I didn’t grow up wanting babies. I didn’t even like kids. I didn’t even like dolls. I never thought I’d want to be a mother.
Until there was you.
I was right.
From the moment I pushed that first slimy little alien looking kid into this world eight years ago, you have never missed a beat. You have never babysat or been on kid duty. You have fathered, right from the very beginning. Even when I was unsure if I could parent, you knew I could. You knew WE could.
You have taught our children what love looks like. Real, hard, never-ending love. From you, they have already learned so much about what it means to be a man, what it means to be a human. They have already learned what it means to be a family.
I’ve watched you rock a million miles in that old, pink, hand-me-down recliner. Walk a million more with a kid on your shoulders. I’ve heard you sing that magical song you made up. The song that always seems to calm every earache, every fever, every case of the crankies. I’ve heard you laugh at silly knock-knock jokes you’ve already heard a billion times and sing all the words to the Veggie Tales theme song.
I’ve listened to you pray with your kids, watched you play with your kids, been overwhelmed with gratitude as you praised your kids just for being themselves.
I’ve seen you discipline them, kiss their wounds, teach them how to properly lick every inch of cake batter off of the beater. I’ve seen the pride in your face when strangers compliment them, when one of your boys holds the door open for a lady. I’ve seen the sparkle in your eye every time Elizabeth says, ‘dada,’ or Logan stops what he’s doing to sing The National Anthem and salute The American Flag.
You’ve fought for the remote, fought for the last word, fought to keep your temper in check when Brodie acts just like your brother.
I’ve seen you make ponytails, make monsters go away, fight for your side of the bed when two or four or six little feet are trying to inch you right off the side.
I’ve seen you chug a cup of coffee just to muster up the energy to play with them for two more hours at the end of your day. Listened to you read Do You Do A Didgeridoo? too many times to count and every time, heard you ask when they weren’t listening, “Why haven’t we thrown this damn book away, yet?!”
Even when you’re weary, even when you’re broken, even when everything else in your life has felt like it was crumbling down around you, they’ve never known it.
Not even for a second.
Every day when they hear the garage door open, their eyes get wide. They run to the kitchen to meet you there. They never have any idea what sort of day you’ve had because you check it at the door. You pick them up and swing them around and kiss their faces, one by one. All they know is that you are just as happy to see them as they are to see you.
I know how much you want for them, how much you want for you. I know that every move you make, every goal you set, every hour you work is for them, for us. I know sometimes you feel like you aren’t the kind of father you want to be. Time and money and circumstance make you feel crippled. I know that you’ll continue to punch that clock, to work those hours, to chug that coffee to make things the way you want them to be but, I can promise you one thing, Nunn:
Your children already think you are the most amazing father who ever lived.
And their mother totally agrees with them.
Thanks for being my baby daddy.
Happy Eight Years.
Your Baby Mama