Personally, I can't get enough of dads: hot dads, short dads, skinny dads, geeky dads. You name it. Mmm, mmm, mmm, how I love me some dads

When I was nine and my brother Ted was two, my parents divorced. I stayed with my father; my brother went with my mother. It was a tremendously sad period in my life (don’t worry, Ted, I won’t tell the commuter parking lot stories), but I learned a lot about my father during the years that I lived with him.

I learned that fathers cry, too. I learned that when I was sick, my father could play nurse just as well as my mother. He’d stay home from work and concoct silly citrus drinks. He understood how to apply a cold compress. He let me watch Three’s Company and Love Boat.

In those years, I learned I could trust my father to take care of me.

Junior’s learning the same lesson about his own father, thankfully under different circumstances. With Chuck home full-time, Junior knows that Chuck can remove slivers and make popsicles and comfort him when he’s having a bad day. Chuck's gotten so adept at parenting, we often have wipe-downs. Junior still prefers barfing on me, but when I look back on this time in my life, I know I will hold dear the trust and bond that have grown between them.

I thought about this a lot on Father’s Day. I thought about what a beautiful gift fathers can be. I’m sorry for those who were taken away from us too soon. And I’m sorry for those who choose not to be part of their children’s lives.

I’m also sorry for the recent article “Are Fathers Necessary?” by Pamela Paul. It’s an insult to fathers everywhere, especially the line “The bad news for Dad is that despite common perception, there’s nothing objectively essential about his contribution.”

I beg to differ. Bitch.

For better or for hair

Apparently my days of marital bliss are numbered.

Yesterday I jokingly asked Charles if he regretted the constraints of matrimony/monogamy/prison because he will never know the jubilation of succumbing to a different woman’s ample breasts or of dry humping a foxy redhead. Ever.

To which he replied, in all seriousness, “Are you saying you want to start swinging?”

Whoa, cowboy. That’s like saying, We’re out of milk so let’s buy a dairy farm.

I rephrased my question: “I was just wondering if you ever thought about how you’ll never make out with anyone else but me for the rest of your life. That could be, like, another 70 years.”

“I don’t think we’ll live to be 100.”

“That’s not the point.”

“More like 75. Maybe 90 for you. If I start to go downhill I’m serious, I’m getting a gun and taking a long walk in the woods.”

“For frick sake, Charles, the topic is not euthanasia. It’s monogamy!”

Then he said the sweetest thing—that he took his vows very seriously, blah blah, and that he is happy to make out only with me for the rest of our lives. Unless...

“Unless they can clone my hair and I can regrow a full head of hair and have a long ponytail and then I’ll get a sports car and find myself a young trophy wife and divorce you.”

I'm warming to his long solitary walk in the woods idea.