My daughter reminded me of another story about my second husband, and since it's a good story for Father's Day, I'll tell it now and move on.
From the first day he met my kids, this man showed patience and creativity with them. To keep them entertained when I took them to his home for the first time, he draped a sheet over the dining table to make them a tent. He provided pillows and snacks, and they crawled in and out for the better part of an hour. I thought that was a good sign.
The day I knew for sure that he had family potential was the first day I cooked for him at the little green rent house where my daughters and I lived. I cooked my favorite special meal, the Sunday dinner menu from my childhood: fried chicken (remember, this was before KFC), mashed potatoes, corn, and buttered dinner rolls. I was really pleased with the way everything looked and tasted, and, for once, it all finished cooking at the same time so it would be hot (this was before microwaves, too).
My kitchen skills, I hoped, might score a few points for me. I felt warm and happy as I placed the hot dishes on the table, and we all sat down. As I dished up plates, I smiled at him, then at my five-year-old, and then at my at my three-year-old, who leaned forward at that exact moment and vomited her guts out.
Without the slightest hesitation, he helped me clean her up. That's when I knew he'd be a good daddy.