I watch you, standing over the lettuce patch in our backyard with Lilah in your arms, pointing out the tiny bunnies that have taken up residence amidst the green and purple leaves. “You have to see this,” you call over your shoulder to me. Your own excitement about this family of rabbits living in our yard is as unabashed as our two year old’s. Lilah’s little arms are wrapped around your neck completely enchanted with the new life in our lettuce patch. My eyes fall upon your face as you smile at your daughter. It’s filled with tenderness and so so much love. You are an uncanny combination of burliness and grace – the same way you spend the bitter cold winter weeks splitting and stacking wood to heat our home or trace small circles on the small of Amelia’s back with your index finger as she sleeps. Perfect.

When we found out we were pregnant with Lilah, we were both so cautious – afraid to let ourselves get too hopeful because a few months before we had a miscarriage. When I started spotting again for the second time, I called you at work in tears, sure we had lost another baby. We were living in London and you had been commuting to work in Sarnia. You made the hour drive home in less than 45 minutes.

At the Emergency department, I went in for an ultrasound. I wanted you to be with me, but it wasn’t policy to allow partners in the room until the very end. When the technician had finished up, and was ready to share what she had concluded, she asked: “Would you like your husband to join you for this part?” Expecting the worst, but still hanging on to hope, you walked into the room and held my hand tightly. The technician turned her computer toward us, and pointed to a tiny flickering spot on the screen. “That’s the baby’s heartbeat,” she smiled. “Would you like to hear it?” Our ears filled with the sound of the little life growing within me and we both started to laugh. I saw your eyes fill up with tears as you squeezed my hand tighter.

In that instant you became a father.
You were hooked.

The three years since have passed so quickly. Sometimes it seems so surreal that we are the parents to these two amazing little girls. In the blink of an eye, our daily lives have become so full.
Full of chaos.
Full of love.
More love than I could have ever imagined is housed within these four walls.

It’s so easy to fall in to our respective roles of “Mama” and “Daddy” (making dinners, kissing “ouchies,” folding laundry, reading bedtime stories…). But as much as you are a “Daddy” to our girls, I never lose sight of the husband you are to me.

I remember our wedding day like it was yesterday. Memories laced with the smell of fresh picked flowers and beeswax candles, a gentle breeze dancing through the bean fields and across my freckled nose, the sound of children laughing, my (not so) little brother reading “The Velveteen Rabbit,” and Jessica’s film rewinding – indelibly writing our memories with light.

Our cheeks hurt from smiling so much!

Our wedding day was perfect in an imperfect sort of way. And that perfect day has never ended. It has only gotten better. Even as I sit here, writing these words, way past any hope of a good night’s sleep, I am still reminded of how blessed we are to have found a home in each other.

My cheeks still hurt.

Lilah has spent the past four days being sick over a little bucket while we took turns holding her hair back and intermittently washing and changing bed sheets. Both of us ended up feeling “flu-ish” and achy as well. But even though we have been cooped up in the bedroom, I’ve officially memorized Make Way For Ducklings and Going on a Bear Hunt, and we’ve watched more Disney movies that I care to admit, we somehow still managed to have a good time. To make up for all of the vomiting, Lilah has said, “I wuv you Mama” and “I wuv you Daddy” in her high pitched, squeaky voice more times than I can count. Amelia has smiled, giggled, belly laughed, and entertained us all in her Jolly Jumper in the bedroom doorway (she only fussed for the tiniest bit when I had to clean Lilah’s projectile vomit off the side of her face).

Maybe because it’s waaaay past my bedtime, or because I’ve been stuck in the house for so long on a diet of popsicles and Gingerale this will all sound silly when the sun rises. Even if this is the case, you are such an incredible father and husband. You are always here for your girls, smiling and laughing, making us feel safe and protected and loved.

But most of all loved.

Happy father’s day, Mike. Our sleeping babies love you so much. I love you so much.

You are my inspiration.