Dado

Today is my dad’s 62^nd birthday.

I wanted to write a post about all things great about having “Dado” as my father.

(Dado, is what I call my dad).

My dad isn’t your average 62-year-old fart. No, he is insanely healthy and active and puts most 50-year-old-pot-belly guys to shame.

Seriously, Dado will walk 10 miles if you let him. Don’t worry, Claire Bear (my mom), hardly lets that happen these days since they’ve gotten the new home. (I’ll have to post about this new house. I’m in love).  

Anyway, I always knew I was one of the “special” little girls because I was probably the only girl on the block who didn’t have a “scary” dad.

Seriously, I hated spending the night over people’s houses because everybody’s dad seemed so serious and had a deep voice.

Dado hardly yelled at me. He would play games like “bears” meaning dado “pretended” to be asleep on the couch while my sister and I ran back and forth trying not to get tickled by the “bear.”

Dado would even go night sledding with us when were teenagers. Seriously, how cool is that?

And the luckiest thing of all, I married a guy as great as Dado. I feel so blessed that my future children will have such a wonderful father like I did.  

I can't get over how tiny my nephew is here. I die. Such a little baby!

I got me a great pops! Happy birthday, Dado! Can’t wait to go eat some manly steaks with you tonight!