Step Dad Fathers Day Quotes

Dads. Do you honestly expect anybody to believe that you can’t find 20 minutes to step away from your computer or turn off the television to play with your child? It has to happen every single day. Do you not understand that children will hinge their entire facet of trust on whether or not their dad plays with them and how involved he is when he plays with them? Do you know the damage you do by not playing with your children every day?

You are the son of a kind, strong, and engaged Father, a Father wise enough to guide you in the Way, generous enough to provide for your journey, offering to walk with you every step. This is perhaps the hardest thing for us to believe—really believe, down deep in our hearts, so that it changes us forever, changes the way we approach each day.

When I see you play, I see perfection,” he said. “I see the player I always believed you could be. So be happy, right here and now. Because of what you have done, who you’ve become. And not on some condition of being number one.” “But why stop striving now, Dad? You’ve raised me to be the very best. That means number one. And I’m not yet. Why are you changing the rules?” My father sat down in the chair next to him. But I could not sit down. “At least be honest,” I said, shaking my head. “Decime la verdad, papá.” My eyes were burning and starting to tear. “Do you not believe I can do it?” I asked him. “Do you not think I can knock her out of first place?” He closed his eyes and sighed. I stared at him, wiping away the tear that fell out of my eye. “After all this time,” I said, “have you given up on me?” He did not open his eyes. He did not respond. “Respondeme,” I said. “¿Creés que puedo hacerlo?” He threw his hands into the air. “Why won’t you listen to what I’m trying to tell you, Carolina?” I stepped closer to him. My breath slowed; my mouth turned down. “Do you think I can beat her, Dad?” I asked him. “Yes or no.” He finally looked up at me, and I swear my heart started breaking before he even said it. “I do not know.” I closed my eyes and tried to stay upright, but my legs nearly gave out. I sat down, but then just as quickly, I was back on my feet. “Te podés ir,” I said. I ran to my hotel room door and opened it. “¡ANDATE DE ACÁ!” I said to him. “Carolina,” my father said. “Get out of my room,” I said. “We’re done.” “Carolina, you cannot be done with your father.” “I’m talking to you as my coach,” I said. “Get out.” My father stood, his shoulders low. His eyelids half closed, suddenly heavy. He hung his head. “Te amo, hija,” he said as he walked into the hallway. I shut the door behind him. In the morning, I got up and went to the court alone. My father flew home to L.A. later that day.

What is a “pyramid?” I grew up in real estate my entire life. My father built one of the largest real estate brokerage companies on the East Coast in the 1970s, before selling it to Merrill Lynch. When my brother and I graduated from college, we both joined him in building a new real estate company. I went into sales and into opening a few offices, while my older brother went into management of the company. In sales, I was able to create a six-figure income. I worked 60+ hours a week in such pursuit. My brother worked hard too, but not in the same fashion. He focused on opening offices and recruiting others to become agents to sell houses for him. My brother never listed and sold a single house in his career, yet he out-earned me 10-to-1. He made millions because he earned a cut of every commission from all the houses his 1,000+ agents sold. He worked smarter, while I worked harder. I guess he was at the top of the “pyramid.” Is this legal? Should he be allowed to earn more than any of the agents who worked so hard selling homes? I imagine everyone will agree that being a real estate broker is totally legal. Those who are smart, willing to take the financial risk of overhead, and up for the challenge of recruiting good agents, are the ones who get to live a life benefitting from leveraged Income. So how is Network Marketing any different? I submit to you that I found it to be a step better. One day, a friend shared with me how he was earning the same income I was, but that he was doing so from home without the overhead, employees, insurance, stress, and being subject to market conditions. He was doing so in a network marketing business. At first I refuted him by denouncements that he was in a pyramid scheme. He asked me to explain why. I shared that he was earning money off the backs of others he recruited into his downline, not from his own efforts. He replied, “Do you mean like your family earns money off the backs of the real estate agents in your company?” I froze, and anyone who knows me knows how quick-witted I normally am. Then he said, “Who is working smarter, you or your dad and brother?” Now I was mad. Not at him, but at myself. That was my light bulb moment. I had been closed-minded and it was costing me. That was the birth of my enlightenment, and I began to enter and study this network marketing profession. Let me explain why I found it to be a step better. My research led me to learn why this business model made so much sense for a company that wanted a cost-effective way to bring a product to market. Instead of spending millions in traditional media ad buys, which has a declining effectiveness, companies are opting to employ the network marketing model. In doing so, the company only incurs marketing cost if and when a sale is made. They get an army of word-of-mouth salespeople using the most effective way of influencing buying decisions, who only get paid for performance. No salaries, only commissions. But what is also employed is a high sense of motivation, wherein these salespeople can be building a business of their own and not just be salespeople. If they choose to recruit others and teach them how to sell the product or service, they can earn override income just like the broker in a real estate company does. So now they see life through a different lens, as a business owner waking up each day excited about the future they are building for themselves. They are not salespeople; they are business owners.

Zeke drifted over to her father’s guitar in the corner of the office. He stared at it for a few long moments, before glancing at her over his shoulder. “Mind?” She shook her head, curious what he would do with the old acoustic. It had seen better days and Dad kept it more for sentimental reasons than practical. Zeke picked it up and dust swirled away. He fitted it under his arm, running through chords to check to see if it was in tune. It wasn’t off by much, but his broad fingers tweaked and tightened until it was at perfect pitch. Seamlessly, he strummed the opening chords to “Home” by Michael Buble. Ember knew her mouth had to be hanging open, but she didn’t care. As if he couldn’t not, his deep voice fell into accompaniment. She stepped away to sink down into a chair, entranced by the broken man singing, eyes shut. Tendrils of need and longing crept into her heart, and it was one of the most beautiful things she’d ever seen. Tears filled her eyes. Almost halfway through the song, his fingers fumbled a note and he stopped singing. When she lifted her eyes to look at him, he stared at her as if he’d forgotten she were there. Jaw tight, emotion brimming in his eyes, he set the guitar back on the stand and walked out of the room. Ember could have wept. She didn’t know why he’d quit, but she wanted him to come right back in and finish the song. Her mind knew what melody was supposed to come next, but it couldn’t create the same type of emotion he had while singing. She thought back to the absolute absorption on his face as he sang, and realized he hadn’t stuttered or hesitated once through the entire performance.

… The frayed and gritty edges of everyone’s world were being worried away by neighbors you’d never noticed until the air spilled over with the tragedy of their loss. The war had taken them or their children; killed them, lost them, torn off body parts, shipped them back brain-fried…. … Tales fell from hearts in heavy, wet tones of grief and confusion…. … Even when rare moments of relative calm and clarity crept briefly through our days, they crawled in with head hanging through that most familiar of all tunnels, our sense of loss. Each new friend seemed only to step in and announce himself with his last breath. Why hadn’t we loved him earlier when there had been more time? That overriding sense of loss was the dismal cloud through which you viewed the world. Dreading life’s relentless advance, but knowing your locks could never keep it out…. … As the late 60’s gave in and died, and I trudged through my first year as an art student in college, even the old folks were growing up. Their World War II glories clouded over. Someone had shot the president, his brother, and a great civil rights leader, dragging us all out of our warm, snuggly innocence. People seemed infested by life, burdened by the stifling weight of it, until we could only force shallow, labored breaths. Each new day was just an old one playing through again, a dust-laden August, a storm always riding right on top of you that never quite cut loose. It settled into your joints until they grew achy, too heavy to lift; tarring all hearts with a dark, heavy plaque. Days stuck together as walking and breathing grew tedious. Until even my bubbly sister couldn’t offer up a smile without a shadow lurking inside it. We trudged through life as our mighty nation killed our sons and broke our buddies, defending itself from skinny barefoot farmers with sticks, in rice swamps somewhere on the other side of existence, where you couldn’t tell the good guys from the bad. Some lost tiny nowhere that hadn’t even existed when you’d been a kid; when the world had been innocent and untainted. Back when Father Knew Best, Beaver’s mom fed his dad all the answers, and Annie Oakley never had to shoot to kill…. - From “Entertaining Naked People

You look beautiful,” my dad said as he walked over to me and offered his arm. His voice was quiet--even quieter than his normal quiet--and it broke, trailed off, died. I took his arm, and together we walked forward, toward the large wooden doors that led to the beautiful sanctuary where I’d been baptized as a young child just after our family joined the Episcopal church. Where I’d been confirmed by the bishop at the age of twelve. I’d worn a Black Watch plaid Gunne Sax dress that day. It had delicate ribbon trim and a lace-up tie in the back--a corset-style tie, which, I realized, foreshadowed the style of my wedding gown. I looked through the windows and down the aisle and could see myself kneeling there, the bishop’s wrinkled, weathered hands on my auburn hair. I shivered with emotion, feeling the sting in my nose…and the warm beginnings of nostalgia-driven tears. Biting my bottom lip, I stepped forward with my father. Connell had started walking down the aisle as the organist began playing “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.” I could close my eyes and hear the same music playing on the eight-track tape player in my mom’s Oldsmobile station wagon. Was it the London Symphony Orchestra or the Mormon Tabernacle Choir? I suddenly couldn’t remember. But that’s why I’d chosen it for the processional--not because it appeared on Modern Bride’s list of acceptable wedding processionals, but because it reminded me of childhood…of Bach…of home. I watched as Becky followed Connell, and then my sister, Betsy, her almost jet-black hair shining in the beautiful light of the church. I was so glad to have a sister. Ms. Altar Guild gently coaxed my father and me toward the door. “It’s time,” she whispered. My stomach fell. What was happening? Where was I? Who was I? At that very moment, my worlds were colliding--the old world with the new, the past life with the future. I felt my dad inhale deeply, and I followed his lead. He was nervous; I could feel it. I was nervous, too. As we took our place in the doorway, I squeezed his arm and whispered, “I love thee.” It was our little line. “I love thee, too,” he whispered back. And as I turned my head toward the front of the church, my eyes went straight to him--to Marlboro Man, who was standing dead ahead, looking straight at me.

Bindi the Jungle Girl aired on July 18, 2007, on ABC (Channel 2) in Australia, and we were so proud. Bindi’s determination to carry on her father’s legacy was a testament to everything Steve believed in. He had perfectly combined his love for his family with his love for conservation and leaving the world a better place. Now this love was perfectly passed down to his kids. The official beginning of Bindi’s career was a fantastic day. All the time and effort, and joy and sorrow of the past year culminated in this wonderful series. Now everyone was invited to see Bindi’s journey, first filming with her dad, and then stepping up and filming with Robert and me. It was also a chance to experience one more time why Steve was so special and unique, to embrace him, to appreciate him, and to celebrate his life. Bindi, Robert, and I would do our best to make sure that Steve’s light wasn’t hidden under a bushel. It would continue to sine as we worked together to protect all wildlife and all wild places. After Bindi’s show launched, it seemed so appropriate that another project we had been working on for many months came to fruition. We found an area of 320,000 acres in Cape York Peninsula, bordered on one side by the Dulcie River and on the other side by the Wenlock River--some of the best crocodile country in the world. It was one of the top spots in Australia, and the most critically important habitat in the state of Queensland. Prime Minister John Howard, along with the Queensland government, dedicated $6.3 million to obtaining this land, in memory of Steve. On July 22, 2007, the Steve Irwin Wildlife Reserve became official. This piece of land means so much to the Irwin family, and I know what it would have meant to Steve. Ultimately, it meant the protection of his crocodiles, the animals he loved so much. What does the future hold for the Irwin family? Each and every day is filled with incredible triumphs and moments of terrible grief. And in between, life goes on. We are determined to continue to honor and appreciate Steve’s wonderful spirit. It lives on with all of us. Steve lived every day of his life doing what he loved, and he always said he would die defending wildlife. I reckon Bindi, Robert, and I will all do the same. God bless you, Stevo. I love you, mate.

It was 7 a.m. on 19 February 1979 and sunny in Santa Monica. The three passengers who followed their pilot into the little Cessna 172 were in high spirits, and not just because of the weather. The day before, Norman Ollestad, just eleven years old, had won Southern California Slalom Skiing Championship. His father, Norman Senior, 43, was an incredibly driven and charismatic man who encouraged his son to go right to the edge in life – and then see what was on the other side. Ollestad Senior had driven his son back home to the coast for hockey practice the same evening as his slalom triumph. And now, the day after, he had chartered the plane and pilot to return to the resort of Big Bear so his son could collect his trophy and get in a little extra ski training. The pilot climbed into his seat and put on his headphones. Norman Jnr was stepping into the back seat when his dad pointed up front. Norman couldn’t believe it – he was going to sit next to the pilot! His dad slipped into the back

Bindi the Jungle Girl aired on July 18, 2007, on ABC (Channel 2) in Australia, and we were so proud. Bindi’s determination to carry on her father’s legacy was a testament to everything Steve believed in. He had perfectly combined his love for his family with his love for conservation and leaving the world a better place. Now this love was perfectly passed down to his kids. The official beginning of Bindi’s career was a fantastic day. All the time and effort, and joy and sorrow of the past year culminated in this wonderful series. Now everyone was invited to see Bindi’s journey, first filming with her dad, and then stepping up and filming with Robert and me. It was also a chance to experience one more time why Steve was so special and unique, to embrace him, to appreciate him, and to celebrate his life.

work vehicles and a lone motorcycle, her SUV had the road to itself, which meant she would get there faster. Indeed, the familiarity of turning onto Caroline’s street was a lifeline. Once she parked in front of the mint-over-teal Victorian, she put Tad on her hip and hurried up the walk. The squeak of the screen was actually reassuring. And the smell of time when she stepped inside? Heaven. “Mom?” Caroline ran barefoot from the kitchen, stopped short, and put a hand to her heart. “Mother and child,” she breathed and slowly approached. Her hair was a wavy mess, and her face blushed in a way that made her look forty, but her eyes, moist now, held adoration. Wrapping a firm arm around Jamie, she said by her ear, “We will not mention the show. It has no place in this house with us right now, okay?” Jamie hadn’t even thought about the show, and certainly couldn’t think of it with Caroline’s soft, woodsy scent soothing her nerves and giving her strength. “Mom,” she began, drawing back, but Caroline was studying Tad. “Oh my. A real little boy. Hey,” she said softly and touched his hair. Jamie felt the warmth of the touch, but Tad just stared without blinking. “I think I know you. Aren’t you Theodore MacAfee the Second?” Those very big eyes were somber as he shook his head. “Who, then?” “Taddy,” came the baby voice. “The Taddy who likes cats?” Caroline asked, to which he started looking around the floor, “or the Taddy who likes pancakes?” “Pancakes, please,” Jamie inserted. “I promised him we’d eat here. Mom—” She broke off when Master meowed. Setting Tad on the floor, she waited only until he had run after the cat before turning back to her mother and holding out her left hand. Caroline frowned. “You’re shaking.” She had steadied the hand with her own before she finally focused on that bare ring finger. Wide eyes flew to Jamie’s. In that instant, with this first oh-so-important disclosure, it was real. Jamie could barely breathe. “I returned it. Brad and I split.” “What happened?” Caroline whispered, but quickly caught herself. Cupping Jamie’s face, she said, “First things first. I don’t have a booster seat for Tad.” “He’ll kneel on a chair. He looks like Dad. Do you hate him for that?” Tad was on his haunches on the other side of the room, waiting for Master to come out from under the spindle legs of a lamp stand. “I should,” Caroline confessed, “but how to hate a child? He may have Roy’s coloring, but he’ll take on your expressions, and soon enough he’ll look like himself. Besides,” she gave a gritty smirk, “it’s not like your father gets the last laugh. If he thought I was a withered-up old hag—” “He didn’t.” “Yes, he did. Isn’t that what booting me off Gut It! was about?” “You said we weren’t talking about that,” Jamie begged, knowing that despite this nascent reconciliation, Gut It! remained a huge issue. Not talking about it wouldn’t make it go away, but she didn’t want the intrusion of it now. Caroline seemed to agree. She spoke more calmly. “Your father’s opinion of me went way back to our marriage, so this, today, here, now, is satisfying for me. How happy do you think he is looking down from heaven to see his son at my house, chasing my cat and about to eat my grandmother’s pancakes, cooked by me in my kitchen and served on a table I made?” The part of Jamie that resented Roy for what he had made Caroline suffer shared her mother’s satisfaction. She might have said that, if Caroline hadn’t gone from bold to unsure in a breath. “I’m not equipped yet, baby. Does Tad need a bottle for his water?” “No. He’s done with bottles. Just a little water in a cup will do, since I forgot the sippy.” In her rush to get out of the house, she had also left Moose, which meant she would have to go back for him before dropping Tad off, which meant she would be late for her first appointment, which she couldn’t reschedule because she had back-to-backs all day, which meant she would have to postpone to another day, which

A few years ago, my phone turned into a device for strangers and robots to butt in between me and whatever I’m doing. Any given caller was very likely a financial-verbal intruder. The simple buzzing of a phone began to frighten me. I decided to shun phone calls systematically, with an exception being of course made for Sushila—and even Sushila knows that, unless it’s urgent, a text is optimal. This decision was overdue. The general history of the telephone call, it can safely be said, is a grim one. Who can begin to measure or even grasp the volume of the calamities reported or produced by this sound-transmission system? It was with very good reason, I now understand, that my father invariably commanded me to ignore the ringing beige gadget stationed in the living-room bookcase. Together he and I would wait, all activity put on hold, for the shrill to stop, an interlude of suspense that could last a minute or more, because in those landline days there was nothing to stop a caller from sticking at it indefinitely, and often the house would be filled with that eerie, seemingly infinite electronic cry, and often this cry would be followed by a second, appellate cry undertaken in the hope, perhaps, that the first call had been misdialed or that my father had just stepped through the door or climbed out of the bathtub. Dad refused to get an answering machine. As a concession to me—I was a high school freshman; it was newly important for me and my friends to be in constant discussion—he permitted me to pick up the phone, but only on the condition that, should the caller ask for him, I would declare him to be “not presently available.” This was the formulation he insisted on.

[My father’s] survival was his way of saying ‘Mulen Labe’ to his oppressors and murderers of his family. His people. In the Krakow Ghetto, in the camps of Auschwitz, Birkenau, Buna Monowitz, Buchenwald. The ability to fight was within him. In his blood. The challenge chose him. No spartan training. How did Dad confront the Nazi terror with no Spartan warrior to mentor him? The frustration and choked cries of rebellion were already internalised in his soul. Later, the frustration and choked back screams resonated in my soul as well when nourished by the relentless, gruelling training. When I was growing up coming my father told me a few stories that stayed with me through the long marches and along the IDF service. His story of the death March from Buna Monowitz to Gliviz through deep snow and freezing cold. It began January 17 and ended the night of January 22, 1945. The night of January 21 was especially cold. There was no place to get warm. As night fell, my father found a bare wooden door and covered himself with it. A little after midnight the freezing temperatures woke him. He attempted to wake up the people around him, shouting at them, “Wake up, wake up. You're going to freeze to death if you don't move.” A few woke up and joined him in stepping in place to warm up. Others remained unmoving and perished. That night thousands froze to death. The next morning, which was the 6th day of the death march, my father got up with a piercing pain in his hip. He could not take even one step, he told me the ball of the hip bone ground against the hip socket “like sandpaper”. When he asked to be left alone, his friends didn't listen and insisted on carrying him. He argued, “I will cause you to fall behind”. They were adamant. With their last ounce of energy, they put his arms over their shoulders, lifted him up and began to look forward. Supported by his two friends, he moved in a line with the rest of the dead. He continued to beg them to abandon him and they refused, insisting on helping him. After a few hundred yards, his joints warmed and he was able to leap forward on his own. Marching as part of the endless column of human suffering. So they marched, supporting each other, until they arrived that night at the train in Gliviz that was to take them to Buchenwald. When he told me this story, I felt immense gratitude to his friends. How did he do it? The hopeless atmosphere, the scant odds of surviving, inability to control your fate, the deep frustration, the desire to defeat a cruel enemy. All of these feelings are part of me. I tapped into them during my training with the Unit…. I recall after finishing very difficult marches, asking my father to tell me about the Death March. Time and again, everything fell into perspective. Each time I understood that no matter what hardships we endured, we would never come close to measuring up to the strength and courage of my dad and his friends.

We work our way back through the crowd. A few steps behind, holding Dad’s hand, I keep my eyes affixed to the back of his white polo shirt. The outline of his wallet is visible through his back pants pocket, stained into the old khakis. A hanky to wipe his brow creeps out of the other pocket. He clips his beeper tightly to his belt—it’s his post-work Sunday casual uniform. As we move faster through the horde, the sweat on our palms intensifies on the humid mid-Atlantic summer day. For a second, his grip slips and we become disconnected. I fall back a few feet as people aggressively pass by. I never lose sight of the man in the white shirt. Immediately Dad turns around, his face concerned but focused. He jogs back and grabs my hand tight, locking his big thumb and fingers around my wrist. He pulls me in. His other hand now sits across my shoulder, a protective hold. “Buddy, if we’re ever separated, just look for me there,” he says, pointing at a hot dog stand with a big, memorable Oriole bird logo. He pauses and looks me up and down. “But we won’t ever be separated.

And then it was over. The morning Fred woke up and renounced his seven a.m. viewing of Planes and How They Fly! I was immediately transported back to my ten-year-old self, the one who had refused to step onto Daddy’s plane, knowing she’d pay the price—his silence—for days. Airplanes faded from Fred’s mind as quickly as they had rooted themselves there nine months earlier. He no longer called me Piper, and I became Mommy once again. Fred’s miniature metal airplanes lay grounded in their basket in his room for a week before I had the courage to return my father’s calls and politely decline his invitation to join him at the airport. “What do you mean he doesn’t want to go to the airport? It’s been over a week.” “I asked him, Dad; he doesn’t want to go. He’s drawing race cars right now.

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