I have his eyes, so they say.
His choice of cabs have never been the best, I hate to admit. Brought me home from the hospital in a rickety contraption of a car. But that was the least of his worries. He had love in his arms. Literally, named me love. That's all that mattered.
You'd think I'd be used to them by now. His sneezes, his coughs. Strong enough to wake you up, even in the deepest of slumber. No wonder one of his friends referred to his as an explosion... not a sneeze.
*Macho nne, never when he is eating fish, don't call him then either.
But it isn't always fun and games with this guy. Puts us in our place when we are slacking on our chores or joking with an education he faithfully provides.
Stylish and stylist in his own right. Call him my personal shopper and interior decorator extraordinaire.
Some dads are presidents, others are terrorists. Mine is neither in case the thought crossed your mind. Either way they influence their bambini. Present or absent.
Mine does just that, more than that.
He gets up for interviews. He gets up to get me up to get to interviews.
He "fails"... mysteriously.
I fail... understandably.
But he gets up, and does it all over again, like its nothing. I on the other hand, can't say the same.
I probably don't bounce back as fast as he does, but that much and a bag of chips he has taught me.
His birthday and Father's Day fall in the same period.
So go ahead Dad, put your feet up, pour yourself your drink of choice and turn that Supersport up.
You, big man, you deserve it.
*Four eyes/ Wears glasses
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