Papa, not dad.

When I was born my Mom wanted us to be different, so she decided that my dad would be called Papa. Over the years I have confused many people because of this, but I have always loved that my Mom wanted us to be different, and so thankful she succeeded.

1919296_514593021016_54437_nThere are not many pictures of Papa and I, at least not that my mom and I were able to find when we were putting together his yearbook dedication page. We are not a very photogenic family, besides I am usually the one with the camera. This picture of us has always been one of my favorites. I vaguely remember getting that yellow umbrella and being so excited about it. I am sure Papa had a great time helping me test it out.

On and off the past couple of weeks I have attempted to plan out what I could write about Papa for today’s post, but I have yet to find the right words. I remember years and years of camp, Sunday School and all manner of other events that Papa was my Mom’s silent support running around where needed. There were countless hot pool areas sat in and cold, rainy track meets attended. He got car sick teaching me to drive and took at least one quick run home to get me my retainer when I forgot it.

The more I think about it, the more impossible it is to truly articulate everything that Papa has meant to me. He is a corner stone in the frame work of my life and is always there to suppourt me. I could never have asked for a better Papa.

Happy Father’s Day.

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