The Man, The Myth, The Human Jungle Gym: An Open Letter to My Husband on Father’s Day

They say superheroes wear capes. Ours wears popcorn pajamas and a muscle tee with arm holes so questionable I don’t think it counts as a shirt anymore.

When I married you, I knew you would be the Swiss army knife of husbands. Fix the leak, build a table, cook meals from scratch (without Google!). Even when you don’t know what to do and you just shrug saying you’ll figure it out, I’m still calm. Because I know that you will, eventually, actually figure it out. I knew you were dependable. I knew you were steady, and kind, and funny in that way that sometimes makes me want to throw a pillow at your face. I knew you’d be the person I could count on for anything.

But what I didn’t know is how incredible it would be to watch you become his person too.

I didn’t know you’d be the kind of dad who lets himself be climbed like a jungle gym, even after a long day. That you’d instinctively know when to be silly, and when to be still. That you’d teach him to be brave, just by being there. That you’d somehow manage to carry groceries, a diaper bag, and a toddler with juice stains in one trip, all while being on a work call.

Uno copies your every move. Your walk, your laugh, your dad grunts when you stand up. He watches you like you’re made of pure stardust. Which, to be fair, you might be. He believes he can do anything because you believe he can. And when you lift him up — physically, emotionally, sometimes literally upside down — he feels safe. Brave. Big. Like someone who matters. Because you treat him like someone who matters.

You make him laugh. You make him feel strong. You make him feel seen. And in the middle of all the Hot Wheels and Oreos and bedtime routines, you make me feel those things too.

You work hard. So hard it makes me ache a little just watching you. And I know I don’t always say thank you. I know the days go by and the hours disappear in a blur of chores and tantrums and half-finished conversations. But please believe this: you are appreciated. Every day. In every way.

Even when I don’t always say it. Even when you’re too tired to hear it. Even when you accuse me of stealing your slippers again (Yes, I did borrow them, but that’s beside the point).

At night, we collapse into the couch after bedtime, and Uno’s snoring softly, and we’re watching something we’ve both already seen, but don’t care because we don’t have the energy to choose something new. That’s my favorite part. That’s the good stuff. You, me, snacks, the quiet, and the kind of love that doesn’t always need words (but today, I’m saying them anyway).

Happy Father’s Day to the man who makes the load feel lighter, who makes the mess feel manageable, who makes our son feel like a superhero in training, and who still makes me feel like the luckiest girl on the couch.
(Especially when you bring me my emotional support triple shot latte without me asking).

Bla bli blu.