When Noah was born fresh out of my belly, all pink and wonderful with a headful of dark hair, Hal exclaimed through smiling tears, “And I thought I’d only ever be calling Lazar my son!”

Lazar was Hal’s cat when we first started dating. He was a beautiful, affectionate, drooling, ball of black fur. Everything you could want in a cat. Lazar died of old age the day we brought Miriam home from the hospital. Literally, within hours of bringing our daughter home into our apartment, he simply fell on the floor and died. It was poetic, to say the least.

The days and nights are not easy for you, dear husband. Dear father of our children. I wish I could do magic. I wish I could bring back the dream. I know you try your very best. To process the sad and the happy. And everything in between. I know it doesn’t always come out right.

But here we are. Ten years married. Twelve years together.

Stronger and weaker than ever.

Happier and sadder than ever.

It’s a life of opposites for us.

It’s confusing and exhausting.

Noah and Miriam made you a father.

Father’s Day is everyday. In its overwhelming pain and dizzying joy.