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Letting Dad Be Dad

Letting Dad Be Dad

It’s our second time attending a gathering at the home of a family in our new church. Adults stand in clusters in the kitchen chatting and eating. Occasionally a few kids charge past. I’m in the middle of a conversation about school sports with another mom, when I hear a familiar two-toned sound. It’s my husband’s signature whistle. I hunch my shoulders toward my ears, shooting him the did-you-really-have-to-do-that look. But it is getting late. We do need to round up our kids. Sure enough, footsteps come quickly thudding from several directions. Pretty soon, our three girls are gathered around my husband, getting their departure instructions. He gives a knowing grin over their heads. I shrug back at him. Truth is, as much as I don’t care for his Captain Von Trapp impression, it works.

Before we had our first child fourteen years ago, my husband offered to yield all the parenting to me. “After all, you were the babysitter. I know nothing about babies,” he claimed. Yet something remarkable happened in that hospital room. While I was bedridden, recovering from childbirth, he figured out how to care for our daughter.

To read more, pick up a copy of the June 2015 issue at any of these locations, or view the digital archive copy here.

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