My fire fighter husband is the best. Let me count the ways:

He laughs. 
He jokes. 
He loves. 
He snuggles (but not too long, because it’s weird). 
He sports tattoos like a rebel. 
He saves lives. Literally. 
He is logical. 
He is real. 
He hugs.

He can fix anything. Literally. 
He invents things when there isn’t a device to get the job done. 
He put the handy in manny. 
He makes his uniform blush. 
He is outdoorsy. 
He is indoorsy. 
He is whatever doorsy we are being that day. 
He is blonde. 
He has muscles. Lots. 
He cooks. 
He takes time and teaches my children what matters. 
He prays. 
He says thank you. 
He holds the door for me. 
He rushes to help elderly people. 
He sweeps a two year old off his feet to play a game of tag mere minutes after meeting. 

He understands dude time with his boys. 
He watches me. 
He brags about his kids. 
He comes to church with us. 
He sits through musicals. 
He wears jeans like a champ. 
He is not afraid of heights or dangerous situations or fires. 
He tells me he loves me, and he means it. 
He rolls in a minivan. 
He drives 45 minutes to get home when our stove makes a funny clicking noise at ten pm. 

He reminds my girls they are beautiful. 
He says “bless you” when I sneeze. 
He’s mine. 

Thank you for being a seriously excellent partner in this parenting experiment. Our kids are rad. They will always be better people because you are their dad. I didn’t mean to rhyme, but you are worth it. Happy Father’s Day Mike The Man Brewer.