This weekend, as we head into Father's Day, I've been thinking a lot about what it means

to be a dad.

My dad, we call him Abu, was an immigrant.

He believed his duty was to make sure his kids didn't worry about money or food.

And growing up, we never did.

So thank you, dad.

He did not know how to change a diaper or cook dinner.

Well, I should say he tried that once or twice, but it wasn't very appetizing.

He worked really hard, though.

I mean, he had this work ethic, kind of like no one I have ever seen.

And I learned a lot about how to work hard from him.

Now I'm a mom.

And on this Father's Day, I'll be in the office.

Yeah, I will say, didn't plan that one too well.

My husband will be home trying to handle a two year old and a four year old.

My kids often say their dad is their best friend.

When they cry, the first person they reach for, they're dad.

When they want to play soccer, they're dad.

When they want to build some crazy Lego contraption, it's their dad.

Given the crazy, unpredictable life of a journalist, most days, he drops the kids off

to school and he picks them up.

I owe a lot in different ways to both of these men, my dad and my husband.

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