I love my Dad.
This isn’t him. This is Thomas Friedman. My Dad looks quite a lot like Mr. Friedman so if you’ve never met Poppa Joe, you can just imagine he looks a lot like what you see above.
My Dad, like my Mom, is great. I could write a novel about how generous and kind he is, about how I have his sense of humor and how I wish I had his patience. I could tell you about how he wants to write a coffee table book about barns when he retires and about how he wants to name the book Oh Barn It.
I could tell you about how my Dad is insanely creative and how he can build incredible things. I could illustrate that inspired handiness by telling you about the house he made for my American Girl doll. (I had Samantha by the way and this is basically why).
I could tell you about how my Dad is a wealth of worthless knowledge and about how he introduced me to my favorite show of all time. I could tell you about the time my parents took me to D.C. when I was 17 and he made sure The West Wing theme song played as we crossed the Key Bridge.
But I won’t. I won’t tell you the extent of awesomeness that is my Dad. I wouldn’t want you to be jealous that he’s not your Dad.