I have a lot to write about my own father, stuff that's been locked in my heart and soul for decades. But I also have another father to write about; Peter, my husband and the father of my son.

I heard someplace, maybe from Peter himself, that at a certain age (biological clock ticking) women are subconsciously looking for the father of a child to come. I've given that some thought and I'm not sure about it. The way you fall in love with someone is so complex. But my story is simple: I was invited to a Sunday brunch in mid-March of 1976 and met Peter. He was cooking omelets for everyone. He had his vegetables all chopped up and organized and he could cook eggs on one side, then flip them up into the air and catch them to turn them over. I had never seen a man cook like that, and he seemed so happy doing it besides. Not showing off, just having a good time making food for people. Who can say? Was Peter the father I was searching for? I had made a good start.

And after we had Michael I knew for sure that this was the father I had searched for. Peter had a lot of "downtown" men friends in center city Philadelphia and we all congregated on Saturday afternoons. Most of these men were unmarried and involved in the arts, and the women they hung out with were worldly, and drank to keep up with the men. Then there was me, sitting on a high stool at the bar sipping club soda (I was never a drinker), shy, watching and listening. Then when I became pregnant and I displayed my growing shape, the Saturday afternoon men friends would come up to me in awe and want to touch my belly. They treated me like a madonna. Peter had to hoist me up onto a bar stool and he stood by me proudly.

Dirty diapers? No problem. Middle of the night feedings? We took turns. And Peter would put Michael into a baby sling first, and then later a into a backpack and walk with him everywhere.

Peter loves camping and the outdoors and when Michael was five Peter decided to take him on a camping trip. Since I didn't like camping I stayed at home. On the morning of their departure, rain was falling heavily and the sky was very dark. Here was this baby of mine, dressed in a yellow slicker, and his father was taking him out into a thunder storm. I gulped my protests and hoped for the best. And once they drove north and through the Lehigh Tunnel the storm was over and the sun was out. This was the beginning of many other father and son camping trips. I have to admit the fact that deep down I was proud of having a husband who wasn't a sissy about going out in a little rain, so confidently, with our son.