Dads are important — and not just for the evident biological purpose — they teach you things you won’t learn from anyone else. Dads teach you how to whistle, how to tie your shoes, how to ride your bike (with and without training wheels), how to camp, build a kite, use a hammer, pack a car, read a map, float on your back in the pool, pick a perfect Halloween pumpkin or Christmas tree (and how to tie the latter to your car), change your oil, change a tire, drive, make barbecue, build a fire, build a paper airplane, sail (kind of), throw a frisbee, spin a yo-yo, shoot a bow and arrow, debate philosophy or politics, blow a bubble with gum, spell “encyclopedia”, sing the “rubber ducky song”, appreciate A. A. Milne, Shel Silverstein, Isaac Asimov and Star Trek, and dozens of other things I’m not thinking of at the moment.
Or maybe that’s just my Dad.
Thanks, Dad. I love you.
Or teach you little rhymes like these
“Mares eat oats and does eat oats and little lambs eat ivy. A kid’ll eat ivy too, wouldn’t you?”
or sing little songs like “daisy daisy, give me your answer do, I’m half crazy, all for the love of you, it won’t be a stylish marriage, we can’t afford a carriage, but you’ll look sweet, upon the seat, of a bicycle built, for two!”