Something about your daddy

Dear sweet babies,

Once a night, the last two weeks in a row, your wonderful daddy has fallen asleep on the floor between both of your cribs.
There is no carpet on that floor. Just hard wood. Just goldfish crumbs. Just chewable blocks.
After nearly an hour of crying at bedtime, he’s laid down on that cold floor, and waited for you two to fall asleep. He’s done it to help you, and to help me finally get a break after a long day of no breaks.
He’s done it after being gone nearly 12 hours, leaving often before you wake and arriving home just before you go to sleep. He’s done it after struggling with commuting to work so that we need only one car, and ultimately, can avoid putting you in day care. He’s done it for us.
He’s done it because that is the kind of man he is.
He’s the kind of guy who will patiently wait for the excess water to fall off the just-washed dishes so that a puddle doesn’t form under the drainer.
He’s the kind of guy who faithfully gets up between 4:30 a.m. and 5, does the dishes, the laundry, walks the dog, feeds the dog, starts my coffee and usually brings it to me, and then takes care of his needs -- all before heading off to work.
He’s the kind of father who never complained about being sleep deprived, though the bags under his eyes told a different story. He’s right there, by my side, caring for you all day long every weekend. And, when you're asleep, he’s busy working hard on other chores that have been long neglected in the last 18 months.
He’s the kind of man who, at soon-to-be 46, under-sells himself daily, and wrongfully allows others to undersell him, including me.
When times get hard – and they’ve been so hard at times -- blame him.
Because he’s the kind of man who will take the blame, who will shoulder it all, without complaint, that’s why.
And, he’s the kind of man who after running at 6:15 a.m.– not walking – 10 minutes to catch a commuter bus to get to work, misses it by a blink, even after whistling and waving, just runs back home, gets in the car and drives. He doesn’t throw a temper tantrum like I would. Even though, all of it means he doesn't see your precious, shiny faces that morning, a fact that I’m sure breaks his heart in two all day.
There are men who think they are stars because of the job they hold, because of the money they have, because of the power they carry over others.
He is not one of those men. He gives everyone, even the most evil, the benefit of the doubt, he believes in second and third chances.
He is a star, an angel, really, because he refuses to let a single day hold him back from enjoying what’s right here in front of him, which is either the two of you, or the TV, or me. Yes, in that order.
He’s the kind of father I never had, always wished I could get, and the one who will continue to fall asleep on cold, hard floors to make sure that the rest of us are happy and content.
Nothing else matters, really.


God, we’ll get through this. I promise.