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Father’s Day is a complicated holiday for me.

It is a day not easily wrapped in a bow and celebrated in front of a backyard grill like the commercials would have you believe.

I was fortunate enough to have two dads growing up and an amazing husband who became a dad to my son.

Fortunate does not mean easy however, because all men are flawed, but this is not the day for that.

This is a day to overlook the unpolished mistakes and celebrate the dads.

Wayne, my first Dad. Always impeccably dressed. He taught me to ride horses before I could walk, took me ice skating until my ankles ached, tossed spaghetti on the wall to see if it would stick; only then was it done, sang and danced with little skill but didn’t care what the world thought because he felt it in his soul and that was all that mattered to him.

Glen, my second Dad. Always introduced me as his daughter even when I insisted on inserting the “step” while introducing him. Down to earth, easy smile, smart as they come and always, always, always more at home behind his work bench puttering and tinkering than anywhere else. He taught me drive. To change the oil, to change a flat. He taught me to be self reliant, to never be the girl on the side of the road flashers going, waiting for a man to rescue or kill her. He helped me write many a resume, always wanted to give me his loose change, and was most content when we would just sit quietly on the back porch swing watching the sun set on yet another day.

Steve, my husband. Knew I came with a son, never considered him a burden. Knew my child would always come first, never doubted that was the case. Was soft spoken with him, got on his level, always looked him in the eye, always listened to his words. Helped him with his homework, taught him to drive. Is still the first phone call when he is in trouble.

Father’s Day is a complicated holiday for me as I celebrate the simply complicated men in my life.