Well, hi there. Remember me? I haven’t been here in a while, and I don’t know if I’ll make a habit of being back. But I didn’t feel like doing a Twitter thread on this, so here we are.

For various reasons that I am not going to go into here, my family is going to therapy (individual and group). One of my family members grouses about this saying, “Nothing is going to change.”

And it’s true. Nothing is going to change, not materially. But one doesn’t go to therapy to change or fix things, necessarily. I’ve been thinking a lot about my own experiences with therapy, and I wanted to talk about them.

I have been in and out of therapy since I was about 15. At that time, I was compelled by my parents to attend therapy sessions because my father had come across one of my journals, and had read it thinking it was something from school. What he found worried him enough to confront me, and I ended up in front of a psychologist.

I only went for about six weeks. What I was told during those sessions was, “You’re not the only one who feels like this.” Which, since I was a teenager, was deeply offensive of course, but also (I admitted grudgingly) reassuring. I came out of therapy knowing how to better communicate with my friends when I felt they were creating drama or using me to dump out their problems.

When I was in my later 20s, I had a bad breakup, and I started having nightmares. Graphic, rather terrifying nightmare about being chased and eaten by monsters. Now, I had always been anxious — I can trace the start of my catastrophic thinking to when I was about 12. But this was a new level of anxiety, even for me.

I spent about two years in therapy. I came out of that experience finally realizing that not only was I worthy of love, but I deserved to be loved, just as I was, flaws and all. If it were for this round in therapy, I never would have gotten married.

I went to therapy after Gabriel died. I have gone on and off a few times since. It’s a space that is wholly for me to talk, say whatever, free of judgement, to cry if I needed to — after Gabriel died, I spent more than one therapy session just crying for 45 minutes. I didn’t have to talk and I didn’t have to comfort anyone. Pure grief.

I didn’t go to get fixed. I didn’t go to change my life (although in some ways, my life did change as a result of therapy). I went to explore and process, to learn about myself without interruption, to listen to someone help me talk through my feelings and thoughts, to get feedback and reassurance that I was okay and not losing my mind. (Anxiety is a bitch, my friends.)

My last therapist was kind of a bust. It made me feel better to talk, but at the end of our last session she said, “It’s always entertaining!” to see me. And I am not pleased about that. I started Prozac in December, as well, which has helped mitigate my anxiety by a whole lot.

Talk therapy isn’t a “fix”; neither is medication by itself. I always advocate seeking and finding support, whether within your circle or with a professional.

We’re not in this alone. It’s good to remember that.

What’s your experience with therapy?


Dear Michael,

I’ve been having flashbacks to my labor with you, which isn’t fun. Labor was never my jam, and yours was quite fraught.

It also doesn’t seem quite fair to you, my little boy, my last baby. You are truly the sweetest child. You hug everyone, you spontaneously kiss me, you are thoughtful, and empathetic, and funny.

You do not understand the cruelty of the world, and that worries me a little bit. I don’t want to see you get ground down by how mean people can be. At the same time, I am reluctant to tell you to toughen up, advise you to protect yourself.

Because, frankly, I’d rather you be empathetic and try to help than be tough and look out for yourself. Maybe I’m being selfish.

In any case today is your birthday, and I can’t believe it’s been eight years since you were a wee peanut. At six pounds, ten ounces, you were actually my biggest baby. I loved the time I got with you as an infant.

Now, we have things just for us, mostly reading books together. You enjoy reading the Dogman books to me; I enjoy reading A Series of Unfortunate Events to you; and we especially love reading Elephant and Piggie books together, out loud, emoting our hearts out.

We also enjoy the farmers market when it’s open. Your sisters would rather spend Saturday mornings being lazy, but you get up early (7:30), and say bye to your dad as he goes off to work. Then we head to the farmers market around 9 or 10, where it’s coffee, pastry, and veggie shopping for me, and popcorn, lemonade, and honey sticks for you. And you always pick honey sticks for your sisters, too. 

You are mostly a pleasant and cooperative child. You work hard in school. You hate getting yelled at (it happens). You like riding bikes, going on walks, Marvel movies, playing video games, and family movie night. You are looking forward to basketball season and guitar lessons.

I am hard pressed to think of something you don’t like. Homework, I guess, and waiting. Just like every other child in the world.

Today, we are heading to the Children’s Museum, and then having some family and friends over. I asked if you wanted to have a classroom party, but you chose a small gathering instead, naming your four local boy cousins and our friends you wanted there by name.

You seem to be on a good path. I hope your dad and I can help you stay on it. Your sisters help too (maybe a little too much; Kate tends to be a mother hen).

Stay open, my sweet son. Keep your eyes facing forward, and let your light shine.

I love you.



I pass this sign (in front of a Christian school) nearly every day, and nearly every day it makes me angry.

I have anxiety. I also pray, and attend church, and I am thankful for my life. As I wrote on Instagram, “Telling me not to be anxious is like telling a person with depression to cheer up or look on the bright side. Mental illness isn’t dispelled with platitude or prayer.” (And thanks to all the people who left comments and support on that IG post. It helps, it truly does.)

I suppose it’s a touchy subject for me. I thought my anxiety peaked last year, and I also thought the stuff I was doing to battle it this year was working. I seem to have been wrong on both counts.

It’s bad again, so bad that I am impatiently awaiting my annual physical to talk with my doctor about medication again.

I have trouble sleeping. I have trouble eating (my appetite has fled — I think I mentioned this elsewhere). I have panic attacks; I am short-tempered.

I am exhausted.

I thought I would get some rest and recovery time this Thanksgiving break, but we are traveling instead.

But, I do still have things to be thankful for, hence this post on this day.

  • I have never cooked a turkey, and I am thankful that I can go another year without having to take over this tradition.
  • Because we are traveling, I don’t have to cook a thing (although I do wish I had remembered this recipe earlier, because I would have volunteered to make and bring it).
  • I am bringing pumpkin roll (made for us by someone else — and, no, Mom, not yours; that one’s already gone), a cherry pie (from a fundraiser that my children did), a bottle of bourbon, and a bottle of prosecco. I procured all of these things prior to Wednesday, so no grocery or liquor store runs for me, yay!

Seasonal Image Here

I hope you find yourself in a good place on this holiday, and can find things to be thankful for. I know sometimes it’s a struggle, and I know I have it pretty good.

Happy Thanksgiving.


Dear Flora,

You are 14 years old today. And you’ve exceeded my every expectation for what having a teenager could mean.

You are passionate, and opinionated, and I love when you talk to me. You don’t always, and I respect that too. You have asked me not to post things about you, but I have asked if I could post this, after you review it. You said yes.

You have faced challenges this year, academically, physically, and, possibly, socially. And you have met them. I won’t go into them; that is between you and me and your father (and, in certain cases, your teachers). Suffice to say: I am impressed — and, if I am being honest, relieved. You saw the stakes, and you decided to not give up.

I am already proud of you. You have made me prouder.

You discovered your sport this year: you discovered rowing. For a long time, you played soccer, and when I asked you to do it last year, in seventh grade, it was a real fight. I asked you to ride out the season, and you did. You weren’t happy about it, and I told you if you did stay the course, I would never ask you to play soccer again.

I have stayed true to my word.

But, through one way or another, we have discovered rowing, or crew, and you have decided this is something for you. You have never complained about going to row; you ask if you have practice, and you have been disappointed when I have told you that due to other commitments (on my part) you couldn’t go. When a race requires a Sunday wake up before 6 a.m., you have never — not once — said, “You know what, maybe this isn’t for me.” When you heard your fall season was ending, you said, “What do I need to do to stay in it?” I said, “Maybe Saturday practices, but they start at 7 a.m.” You said, “I want to go.”

You are discovering your strengths. You are a creative problem solver. You are aware that you are not invincible, but you are finding ways to work around your obstacles. You aren’t waiting around for your dad and me to solve your problems; you are deciding that you have the smarts to solve them. We just have to be there for support and encouragement.

You aren’t afraid to hug me or your dad; you aren’t afraid to be loving. Yeah, your siblings drive you absolutely up a wall, but you also find wells of patience in order to deal with them. You have become more willing to try stuff; you have become more social, and you have friendships that seem true and strong.

You aren’t done growing and developing, and you have many a challenge ahead of you. This year has given me faith that 1. You know your father and I have your back; 2. You may stumble, but you won’t fall; 3. You have a core of steel in you that will see you through whatever you face.

I love you, my rainbow child, my first daughter. I love your quietness, your pensiveness, your willingness to speak up, and your deep and abiding strength. You may lose sight of your own inner strength over the course of the next few years; it seems to be a thing that teen girls go through. I hope you find these words when and if you do have self-doubt, and I hope you remember the love and believe your father and I have in you. And that you always find in it yourself to go on.

I’m cheering for you, now and always. I love you, my dear.

Happy Birthday,

Image: “Baby Cactus”, Watercolor, by Flora Mangine


Look, I am about to blog about something stupid. It’s supposed to be funny and make you laugh, and I hope it does.

Because I have nothing to say about the Pittsburgh synagogue shooting that hasn’t been said. I am horrified. I am filled with despair and anger. Flora and I were driving to Philadelphia when Dan called and told me about it. I nearly burst into tears on the spot. This is my city. The neighborhood where it took place is where my brother and SIL and their family live. It’s a wonderful, diverse part of Pittsburgh. And having tragedy touch down there is beyond me. Beyond my ability to talk about it.

So: Instead, I am going to tell you a story. A story about me and… port-a-potties.


Outhouses. Port-o-johns. Port-a-potties.

Whatever you call them, I think we can all agree: They are awful to use.

And yet, use them we must.

When I was in my first trimester of pregnancy with Michael, Kate was still in the throes of potty training. We had gotten her most of the way there, but the second she heard there was a baby on the way, I swear she took it personally. She regressed pretty hard on the potty front.

Also at this time, we were exploring organized sports with Flora. We signed her up for U5 soccer, which I refer to as herd ball.

Also at this time: It was hot that spring.

Picture me, stumbling with pregnancy-related exhaustion and sickness, following a 3-year-old around an outdoor soccer field where the only bathroom option was a port-a-potty. I already had a natural aversion to them. I’d rather wander into some trees in the woods and squat to pee than use a port-a-potty, but this is not an option with a 3-year-old in a public place.

And Kate loved the port-a-potty. She was fascinated. And when a potty-training three-year-old says she has to go potty… you don’t tell her she has to wait until you get home.

I would escort Kate to the door of the port-a-potty, and get her as ready as I could to enter and *gag* sit. I would wipe the seat if necessary, and I would stand in the doorway, with the door propped open, basically trying not to breathe.

It was a disgusting three months (April, May, June).

We all (obviously) survived. But the experience left me with a visceral and negative reaction to even the idea of using a port-a-potty.

Of course, in a bitterly ironic twist of fate, I have had the awful experience of not having indoor toilet options over several of the past weekends. Two weekends ago was our annual trek to Linn Run State Park, where none of the cabins have running water, and there are two outhouses and one bathroom. My best advice to my daughters if they needed to use the outhouse near our cabin was: breathe through your mouth and don’t look down.

Flora’s day-long row events (of which there have been two, and another is upcoming this weekend) do not take place in areas where wandering into a gas station and using the toilet is easy.

At the Head of the Ohio race, I used a port-a-potty around 9 a.m. Toilet paper was already gone, and I made the mistake of not holding my breath immediately. I almost vomited. Near the end of the day, I walked up to the outdoor bar at the restaurant on Washington’s Landing, and bought a beer so I could go inside and use the bathroom.

My experience at the Head of the Schuylkill wasn’t much better, but I did remember to bring napkins with me at least. I only made one port-a-potty stop over the entire day; Flora made exactly zero; and we stopped at the first rest area on the turnpike on the way home.

And now, this weekend, to add insult to injury, I am menstruating AND we are headed to a race in Fairfax.


Life is poopy. No pun intended.

I get literal anxiety about this stuff. Like “wakes me up at night:” what am I going to do dealing with period stuff and port-a-potties.


Kate and I talked about what we would do if we won the Mega Millions the weekend we were in Linn Run. We decided we would donate to the park so they could put running water in each cabin (just a sink), and replace both outhouses with real bathrooms.

I hope the Head of the Occoquam is within walking distance to a coffee shop, a gas station, anything. They will get my money if I can have a seat without holding my breath.

One more weekend until we vote, America. Let’s get it over the finish line this time, and start the end of our national nightmare.

And may all your bathrooms be of the indoor type, clean, and sweet-smelling.

What do you have ridiculous anxiety about?


I reached my limit about two weeks ago, when Dr. Blasey Ford came forward with her allegations against Kavanaugh.

I’ve been struggling — as any remaining regular readers know — since Election Day 2016. This latest outrage perpetuated on the American people pretty much broke me, coming, as it does, after the endless stream of hate, corruption, disregard, and naked power grabbing by the people in power. Add the Catholic Church criminal scandal on top of it?

For my own piece of mind, for my own burgeoning anxiety, I have withdrawn. I have drawn into my family life. My daily routine is tightly focused on my job and the four people in my household.

I barely listen to the news anymore; I have been tuning out whenever T*ump speaks for years, anyway — I cannot abide the sound of his voice. And now, anytime #Kavanaugh is mentioned, I have to change the station too. The endless speculation about what is true and what is not, and the utter helplessness I feel watching as the GOP ignores every red flag because nothing matters to them except to sit THIS guy to give cover to their leader — the rage is all encompassing.

I have almost completely forsaken Facebook; my time on Twitter has been severely curtailed. Because as far as I’m concerned, it’s not up for debate.

It’s just not. Two words: Merrick Garland.


Controlling what I can

1. My anxiety is so bad that I have lost my appetite, which makes meal planning not only challenging, but downright unappealing. Here’s how I’m dealing with that:

A. I got a coupon for $50 off of Blue Apron, so I signed up for that (for two weeks). The first box is due to be delivered tomorrow. I only signed up for vegetarian meals for two, just so I could have a sample of a) how much prep work was needed; b) if the food was good; c) if it was going to be cost effective for my family at the regular price.

Glancing at the program, and at similar meal delivery programs, I have the most doubt about c. They seem to range in price from $8 to $12 per plate per meal. I may as well take the family out every night if it’s going to cost $12 a plate, and take a lot of time and clean up in the kitchen.

B. I am trying to find prepare-ahead freezer meals that I can prep on weekends and cook either in the slow cooker during the day, or pop in the oven (or have the children pop in the oven) when I get home. The first two I tried to make for the family were only so-so (came from this site), the Chinese Beef and Broccoli, and the Honey Rosemary Chicken. The latter seemed better, and I think with a couple of tweaks, suggested by a friend of mine, it will be better received when I try it again. (Namely, use thighs, not just breasts, and use some butter.) This will be an ongoing experiment. I want to see how my family feels about the Lemon Chicken, and find some vegetarian recipes. We invested in a timer for this and everything so I can set it up before I leave for work, and come head to a done meal!

2. Escape into the TV. We don’t have cable any longer, so I don’t have to worry about tuning out TV news. The four big shows we are into these days are: Steven Universe (me and the children), The Good Place (Dan, me, and the girls), Castle Rock and Luke Cage (just me).

I am simply enamored with Steven Universe, as are the children. Such a quirky fun show; Rebecca Sugar is a national treasure. It’s got some underlying themes that make it a good place to talk about relationships, love, friendship and loyalty.

3. Romance novels! Yeah, I said it.

In the midst of the Kavanaugh nomination process, I checked out Jessica Valenti’s book Sex Object, A Memoir. But I was too horrified and enraged, and I had to stop reading it. So I turned to romance novels, and discovered Wendy Wax — simple, formulaic, and female-centric, and absolutely light. I am waiting on a couple of Ilona Andrews titles as well.

I can’t deal with the outside world right now. Sue me.

4. Which doesn’t mean I’m not in the fight. I am making my calls (often shaking in anger), sending emails (same!), and writing postcards. I have my lawn signs up.

November 6th cannot come fast enough.

How are you coping? If you are coping?


A friend sent me an article, an op-ed piece, by the man who stood up in the middle of Mass recently to confront his priest about how to move on from the abuse scandal in the Catholic church. It’s worth a read here. I had seen mention of it on Twitter.

While I have some admiration for a person who could do this, interrupt Mass, challenge his priest, after I read the op-ed, I realized I did not share this man’s opinion about what comes next. He asserts that people should stop going to Mass, and “It is wrong to support the church.”

But he doesn’t offer anything else.

Just: Stop going to church.

He has given up on the idea that the church can be reformed. He is taking his family and walking away.

And that is a valid choice for him. I am sure he will not be the only Catholic to make that choice in the wake of the abuse scandal and the coverups.

I am not going to walk away — or at least not just yet. I am continuing to struggle, I won’t lie. Time may prove Mr. Nathaniel correct, and the church may not be able to reform itself. It may continue to bluster and obfuscate. And if that proves to be the case, then my choice becomes more clear.

But I’m not leaving without trying to have an influence.

Michael is due to receive First Holy Communion this spring, and Flora is due to be confirmed. I want to give them the opportunity to receive these sacraments.

The Gospel reading for this week reveals a community in crisis. Some of Jesus’s followers turn away from him as he starts to preach the good news about receiving eternal life — by partaking of the communion of faith. Last week, Jesus said, “I am the bread of life.” This week he says, “No one can come to the Father except through me.”

As disciples leave, Jesus turns to his apostles. “Are you going to leave, too?” He asks. And Peter says, “To whom shall we go? You have the message of eternal life.” (Source)

If I decide to stop going to church, what do I do, where do I go? A church without a Eucharist? A church without a Pope? Yes, the death and resurrection of Christ is the center of all Christian religions. But only Catholicism has the transubstantiated Eucharist. (I’m willing to hear arguments against the papacy, but I will meet you with great skepticism. I recognize these men are, only, ultimately, men — flawed and weak, learned and holy. Changes need to be made, but I’m not sure I’m on board with ending the papacy.)

So! What’s next for me? I will continue to attend weekly Mass, and receive the Eucharist. I will sign my children up for CCD, and continue to educate them in our faith at home.

There is a good woman I know via social media. She has been such an example to me as a Catholic woman, and wife and mother. She has started a campaign to advocate for change in the Catholic church, and I am going to join her in her efforts.

She has founded The Siena Project, named after St. Catherine of Siena, who declared, “Proclaim the truth and do not be silent through fear.”

If you feel the need to leave the church, I understand. But if you are like me, and struggling and want to stay but DO SOMETHING, then I encourage you to check out Miriel’s project and participate. I know Mr. Nathaniel is not alone, and I hope that I am not alone either.


ETA: The priest at the 7 p.m. mass I attended last night with my children addressed this head on. He said (and I’m paraphrasing), “Many of you sitting here tonight are struggling. Are you going to stay in the church, or are you going to leave? I understand, and I encourage you to pray.” He acknowledges, as do many of us, that the church as an institution has lost its moral authority.

All I have to say is that we, the people in the pews, have to hold the church accountable. If the church does not provide transparent changes, it truly cannot stand as an institution. Time will tell.


I am not a lawyer.
I am not a theologian.
I am not a victim of childhood sexual abuse (by a priest or anybody).

I am Catholic, and I am a writer. So I am going to try to put some thoughts down. I am going to write and mail some letters to the church leadership (much thanks to Twitter friends Katrina and Miriel, who both have given me scripts to use).

Ultimately, I don’t know what will happen to (in any particular order): the priesthood, Catholic churches, the Catholic laity, or anything else.

Primarily, of course, my thoughts are with all the victims of abuse at the hands of clergy. The crimes committed against those victims and their families is appalling beyond words. They have all of my prayers, and, frankly, I hope that when they come to the church leadership about things that need to change, they are heeded. The fact that church leadership compounded their suffering by moving priests around, settling cases with abuse victims and making their silence part of the payoff, and, even now, asserting how sorry they are without defining consequences for their actions is not helping or healing.

Yes, we know that a lot of this abuse took place a long time ago. That doesn’t matter. We know that many changes have been made so this type of abuse is less likely to happen going forward, and is more likely to be reported and stopped much sooner if it does happen — and that matters, but probably not to men, women, and families who have already been victimized at the hands of their clergy.

Yesterday was the first mass I attended since the news of the grand jury report broke in Pennsylvania (coverage here). (Yes, I know, I missed a Holy Day of Obligation — remember, I am a #badCatholic.) And I struggled yesterday, struggled in my heart.

My faith has sustained me through some very difficult things. And getting up and leaving the Catholic church — it’s not like choosing another restaurant or clothing store if I don’t agree with their views on stuff.

What happened was a great sin and tragedy, and I don’t condone it, and I want to see change. I honestly think any priest, bishop, and cardinal named in that report and still serving — looking especially to my own diocese of Pittsburgh — should be prosecuted and defrocked, statute of limitations be damned. Does that leave the Catholic church in Pittsburgh without a head; or the Catholic church in America rudderless, leaderless?

Maybe for a time it does. Maybe that is something that needs to happen. So that the good men and women of the church can step in and… resurrect it to a more holy institution. The church is fallen. Again.


The two central tenets of my faith are: the death and resurrection of Jesus, who was the son of God; and the presence of Jesus in the Eucharist, aka transubstantiation.

We are in a cycle of the liturgical calendar that is especially focused on the Eucharist — it is focused on God feeding the people. Manna from heaven, the loaves and the fishes, Jesus offering himself as the bread of life. Receiving the Eucharist is the most important thing I do every week. It sustains me; it gives me strength.

But I’ll tell you: I am struggling. I want to know what the victims need to facilitate healing, if that can be done. What they need from leadership, clergy, and laypeople. I want them to have that.

I am grieving, for the victims — and for myself. For my experience of my faith that is altered, that has a shadow cast over it. I don’t know how that will change in the coming days and weeks, if it will.

The church cannot offer us apologies and sorrow, and then close the door. Our bishops cannot offer us changes in processes that protect children — protect my children! — and think they’ve taken care of everything. I don’t know what the future looks like for the Catholic church.

But it’s got to look more different from its past.


We recently traveled to Seven Springs for the 47th summer in a row (i.e. my entire lifetime) of vacationing with my father’s side of the family. (Note: The clan has been doing this longer than I have been alive.)

It was incredibly relaxing, and a welcome, needed break. I’ve been having some health issues (more when I know more), and it was nice to not have to rouse myself to do very much. As a matter of fact, the one night I was suppose to make dinner, I supervised from the couch, and the rest of the household pitched in. (Thanks, everyone. I’m going to get better!)

The most strenuous thing I did was walk back and forth to the pool. Which, granted, was more strenuous than it should have been, but hardly a marathon.

A few anecdotes:

1. Saturday at the pool, Michael asked to learn how to play Euchre. This is the clan card game, and many generations know how to play. I couldn’t send him over to learn from my cousins — they play too fast and use unsavory language while playing. Nonna, Pap-pap, and nephew A agreed to play with Michael and I making up one half of a team with nephew A.

Michael balked when we tried to explain trump. For obvious reasons. “Do we have to use that word?” he asked. “Can’t we just use George?” No, we explained. Euchre, and trump, predate the current president, and will be around when he is gone.

2. Sunday night, we let the girls go to the lodge with a gaggle of cousins. This is a right-of-passage. As they were getting into the car to go down, I gave them the rules: No drinking. No hanging out alone with people they didn’t know. This all earned me a good deal of eye-rolling. “Hey, it’s my job,” I said. Aunt Sis chimed in: “No drugs!” “Yeah,” I added. “Don’t do drugs!”


It is heart-warming to me that my children are excited to see their extended family. To the point that they will ask to hang out, sans adults. They took the shuttle bus to be home by 10:30. Independence!

3. I had downloaded a couple of books to my Kindle for the weekend. I read Sandra Brown’s Low Pressure, and while I usually enjoy Sandra Brown, this was a poor effort. Yeah, she’s formulaic, and fairly predictable, but at least she does a good page-turner. This one was kind of a mess, though, and jumped around too much. Also, her female character was frigid — except with the hero, of course — which seemed like a weird choice. (Her older sister was a slut, and, of course, was murdered. So she decided she couldn’t like sex, or something like that. It was… icky.) So, even if you like Sandra Brown, don’t read Low Pressure.


4. It was a weekend of games for me: Euchre, Rummikub (pronounced rummy-cube), and on Monday, a four-hour-plus game of Trivial Pursuit. Despite leading almost the entire time, Dan and I DID NOT WIN.


But, man, did we laugh.

Anyway, it’s been a while since I posted, but I wanted to remember this stuff, so I’m writing it down here. Summer is good.

What’s your favorite game to play in a group?


Lessons my dad taught me:

1. Hard work is more important than natural talent. The first D I ever earned was in my senior year of high school. It was in calculus. I had signed up for AP calculus and applied to get college credit for my grade. I needed to earn a B+ or better.

I didn’t understand a whit of calculus. 

I went home, and told my dad I got a D. “Well,” he said. “Guess you better work harder if you’re going to get those college credits.”

I studied calculus like I had never studied any subject before. I got my B+ and my college credit.

2. A marriage is a hell of a lot more than staying faithful to one person. Not 10 minutes after Dan had asked my parents for their blessing for us to get married, my father said, “Marriage isn’t 50-50. It’s 100-100.”

My mom and dad were partners in all things. They shared household, parenting, and business decisions and work. My dad obviously and clearly treated my mom as his equal (if not, in some cases, as his better). He wasn’t a cook (ask me about the time he tried to cook rice), but he cleaned up after meals, and taught us children to do the same. Although he wasn’t handy around the house, he helped when he could, and when he couldn’t he called a professional. 
3. Keeping the faith will sustain you. My father is a man of faith, through and through. He brought us to church, he made Cursillo (a retreat for Catholics), he was active in his faith community. And through every challenge he faced as a man, husband, and father, he prayed.

When I was at the lowest point of my life, I walked into a church. I didn’t know if God still believed in me. I had not been a good daughter. But I knelt down, and I said, “I don’t know if you want to hear from me, but I need the strength to do some hard stuff. You are the only One I know who can give it to me.” And God did. Without the example my parents had provided, I don’t know where I would’ve turned.

4. Love is worth the wait. My father and I danced to “What a Wonderful World” by Louis Armstrong at my wedding. I don’t remember all of what we talked about, but I do remember saying, “I finally found someone who loves me like you loved mom. Like I deserve to be loved. Thank you for showing me what that looks like.”

5. Being a grandparent makes all the shit your children put you through worth it. I have never seen a man who enjoys being a grandfather — a Pap-pap — more than my dad. The care, love, and respect he shows my children, as well as my nieces and nephews, is invaluable to his children as parents and his grandchildren. He lights up with true and genuine joy around those children, and it is a delight to witness.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad. I love you. Thank you for everything you do and have done for me. And I hope you got to play some golf. 

Daddy’s (first) little girl