Hope you like these socks, honey

Picture me lying in my hospital bed, bleary from 18 hours of labor, drugged up and hooked to my IV. Freshly stapled from an emergency C-section, I’m half asleep when my sweet darling husband finally brings over our precious baby — the first of our five — so I can get my first peek at all nine pounds of her.

He gently picks her up from the bassinet, where he has been staring at her for the last half hour. “Before she was born, I thought she would look just like you, and I would love her so much,” he says, as he places her in my arms. “But she looks just like me, and I love her even more.”

And so began one father’s love affair with his darling daughters, aka his clones.

Father’s Day is rarely given the respect Mother’s Day receives. The presents, celebrations, and public attention pale in comparison. But there is no doubt who is first in his daughters’ hearts. The lingering hugs or peals of “Daddy!” when he walks in a room demonstrate who ranks first, and I love it. Nothing is sweeter than the daddy-daughter bond.

When the girls were young, he attempted to share his own childhood interests. My husband used to play basketball in a Department of Justice league and occasionally brought the older girls to his games. He’d come home with triumphant stories of dunking on senior attorneys, who were probably in their 50s, dreaming of what could’ve been if only NBA scouts attended these games.

One year, the kids got him a basketball for his birthday. He playfully picked up the wrapped gift, shaking it and joking about what might be inside the unmistakably shaped package. Is it a book? he asked. A shirt? A pen?

My oldest could hardly contain herself. “It’s a ball, Daddy. It’s a ball! We got you a ball!” To this day, we quote this every time someone shares spoilers or ruins a surprise.

Still, hanging with their artsy mom all day did not develop our daughters’ sporty potential. One Shabbat, we visited a neighbor who had a son around our oldest daughter’s age. Although his parents were not potential NBA recruits like my husband, they clearly had worked harder at teaching their preschooler some athletic skills. At age 4, Josiah could sink a baby basketball from 20 feet away, and he could smack a Nerf ball hard enough to make you wonder if foam rubber could crack a window.

Suddenly, new possibilities opened up in Daddy’s eyes. The next day, it was off to Target to buy a range of miniature sports equipment. Soon we had our own hoop, rackets, and bats. When training time began, our princess-obsessed daughter insisted that before she touched a ball, her prince-trainer needed to kiss her to awaken her from her eternal slumber. After a couple rounds of that, Olympic dreams were quickly dashed. The net may live on to this day in our basement, but hoop dreams are no more.

Instead, father and daughters bond in other ways. I have a terminal case of video-induced narcolepsy and find it nearly impossible to stay awake for any movie viewed at home. Naturally, a shared love of film has brought the rest of my family close together. Any attempts on my part to break into this clique are met with open hostility. “You could never understand the plot, Mom. It’s just too complicated for you.”

Thankfully, no one told my professors or clients that I’m such a simpleton. Unfortunately, they are mostly correct, and I’m happy to make the popcorn and doze off in the room, watching them laugh together at my expense.

Dad is also the go-to advisor for anything in STEM. Other than occasionally proofreading an essay, my contributions to their homework efforts have been rather limited. But Dad has put in many hours relearning topics he loved in high school and college in order to help his babies with their work. His willingness and ability to figure out topics he hasn’t touched in decades is extremely impressive, and has given him many hours of closeness with his beloved girls. Nothing says love like a midnight study session of differential calculus, formal logic, or organic chemistry.

The chemistry between father and daughters is a beautiful thing. In 2020, it brought us our doggie “daughter.” Sitting around the house on July 4th weekend, I got a call from a friend who had just adopted a puppy. The kids overheard, and a few minutes later I was calling the Amish breeder, learning that there was just one puppy left from this litter, and if we hopped in the car, we could be proud pet parents later that day. No way, said my husband, but hey, we had no plans and may as well visit Lancaster just for kicks.

Off he went with four of our girls to take in the scenery and pet some doggies. Despite his swearing he wouldn’t adopt without coming home to discuss, I knew before they buckled up that they would not be coming home alone. He had hoped for a boy dog for a little Y chromosome companionship, but had to settle for naming her Charlie.

Happy Father’s Day to you, honey, and to all the beloved Abbas, Dads, and Papas. You’ve earned your special day. Hope you like these socks.