Celebrating Black Fathers

Celebrating Black Fatherhood: The best father in the world, my husband – Mr. Greatness

The first dad I want to celebrate is the father of my children, my husband Mr. Greatness. What can I say about him, he is the best father any child could ask for. He embodies black fatherhood.


I made him a father back in 2002, when our first child, G was born. I had a pretty uneventful pregnancy and he was with me every step of the way. The morning I went into labor, he had just gotten home from work and he’d just laid down to get rest when my water broke. We lived across the street from the hospital, so I waddle across the street with him in tow, ready to deliver our first child. Five hours later, she was born. As the doctor laid her on my chest for the first time, I lifted my head to kiss him and I notice the tears streaming down his face. He was so happy. We were so happy.


From the day she was born they were inseparable. I went back to work 6 weeks after she was born, so it was just him and her during the day. I don’t know how he did it, working all night, then coming home to take care of a newborn while trying to get some sleep so he could go to work at night. But he did it. He would show me how he would cradle her as he slept, she was a good baby and let her daddy sleep. There were days when I was at work, I would look up and there he was strolling into my job with her strapped to his chest, talking about they were heading to NYC to hang out.


He was the one who took her to get her ears pierced at 3 months. Then he took her again after her holes closed–and again for the third time. I had to convince him that a three-month-old baby didn’t need platinum and diamond earring. “This is my daughter and she deserves the best,” he would argue. In the end, however, she didn’t get $3,000 earring, but down through the years, I have heard, “she is my daughter and she deserves the best,” countless times.


He was the one who introduced her to solid food, a chicken leg to be exact, at four months old. I was more than perplexed, “she four months old, she can’t eat chicken.” But of course, she proved me wrong. She sucked on that chicken leg until the meat just dissolved, and just the bone was left.


“See I told you she could eat it,” he said.


He was the one there when she took her first steps. I came home from work and my baby was walking. He told me how it happened with beaming with joy of a proud parent. I was upset that I wasn’t there to witness it, but I was glad that he was.


Fast-forward five years and our second child, J, was born. I gave him a son. Boy, oh boy, not too much change, he doted over him just as he doted over our daughter. The difference was, he said that I could stay home to take care of J. I’m am forever grateful to him for this because I missed so much of G early years because of my job, and I think he knew how much this bothered me. But me being home didn’t  change how he interacted with the kids, not for one minute.


Then 19 months after J was born, P3, was born. P3, his namesake, his mini-me; P3 is his father all the way. 


I often thank God for allowing Mr. Greatness to choose me to be his wife and the mother of his children. I don’t know what I did to deserve such a great man, but whatever it was I’m so glad that I did it. He would go to Hell and back for his children. He has made sacrifices–went without–worked two jobs so they can not only have the things that they need but also the things that they want. While I am the one who’s yelling, he’s the one who sits them down and talk to them. He has a way with them that I can’t duplicate, I’ve tried. Because of him, I am a better mother. Because of him, they will be amazing adults. Because of him, you can’t tell me that black men can’t be great fathers.


I love you, babe.


May God be with you until we meet again.

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