Hi, I'm Zibi Owens. Thanks for listening to Moms Don't Have Time to Read Books.

Today is Father's Day. So happy Father's Day to all the dads out there. I hope everybody had a great day.

I have a quick essay to read probably three minutes about Father's Day, and I figured better late than never to record it.

So I'll share it with you. I'm always open to comments. You can email me at Zibi at Zibbyoens.com.

And also follow me, please on Instagram at zibby owens and at

moms don't have time to read books also for my new podcast at kids do have time to read um so i hope

you'll follow me and i hope you enjoy this short article and that it makes you think of your dad or

the memory of your dad and just feel a little bit better today it's called called, this Father's Day, my dad actually gave me

the gift, and I published it on the Today Parenting Team site from the Today Show. I'm wandering

through an Upper East Side bathing store to pick out the perfect swimsuit to give to my dad for Father's Day.

My younger daughter has wrapped herself around my leg as I haltingly inch forward. Does my dad even want another bathing suit? I wonder. I don't have time to find him the perfect gift with four kids of my own to manage and my podcast to produce. It'll have to be good enough. As I shop, I realize that my dad might not realize some many small yet important things he has done over the years that have really stuck with me, the things I

mentioned in passing to my own children, little moments from when I was his little girl, I decided to make a list. One, milkshakes. When my dad tucked me in at night, he'd wrap the blanket tightly around my shoulders, lean over and ask which flavor monk? He calls me monkey, because when I was born, that's what I looked like. I'd giggle and call out,

Chocolate. He'd look right, look left, then look down and start shaking me saying,

chocolate, milkshake, I'd squeal with laughter. Two, Myrtle the Turtle. After bedtime books,

my dad would make up magical stories about the adventures of Myrtle the Turtle. One day,

Myrtle would be a spy, another day a ballerina. Every night something new. I hung on every word every time. At some point, my dad decided to buy us an actual turtle named Myrtle. Mertl sat in her glass tank on my dresser for years, watching me grow, reminding me of the power of a great story. Three, Thum Wars. Whenever my dad and I went anywhere together, a dinner out, the high holiday services at our temple, a play, he would casually, stealthily extend his closed hand to me, curved like the shape of the letter C. He wouldn't look at me or look down. He'd focus straight ahead, perhaps a small smile on his lips. I'd immediately engage hiding our secret game from everyone around us.

It was just for us.

Our world.

One, two, three, four.

I declare a thumb war.

I braced for sneak attacks.

I never wanted thumb peace.

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