Today is Father’s Day, and it is the first time in my life I don’t have a dad to celebrate.

Yes, I see all you men out there who I know, saying: you can buy me golf clubs, or cook me a steak, or let me sleep in. But you KNOW it’s not the same.

My dad died in 2021, right about the time we were realizing something was really wrong with Rich. He had had Alzheimer’s for a decade, so we lost him by degrees. I honestly feel like I stopped having a dad about 5 years before he passed. I had a father, but not a dad, you know? He wasn’t the same smiley guy who always looked me in the eye when he asked how I was. Wayne Rice was a warm, passionate, friendly man who loved travel, hosting parties, coaching and playing sports, and had friends everywhere. Like many of you, my memories of him are countless.

Dad was self-employed, so he pretty much set his own schedule. That meant he came home in the later afternoon from work, and was thus able (and willing) to attend every parent-teacher conference, to coach our sports, to join us at the dinner table. He always got up way too early — like by 5am, and then he went to work out (always in full sweats, and graciously deposited those wet smelly clothes in the laundry room sink upon his return home, much to y mom’s dismay). Because he was such an early riser, he always fell asleep in his lazy boy while watching TV. He insisted he was never asleep. We would call his name, and he would open his eyes with a big smile. “I’m awake! Just resting my eyes!” Yeah, right.

As I said, dad was our coach for soccer and baseball, and played both sports as well. My folks had us pretty young, so they not only kept up with us, they did things with us. Dad and Mom learned to both water ski and snow ski as adults, and we were there for the ride, often whether we liked it or not. Like when he made us ski from the the top of the bowl at Alpine Meadows (even though the chair lift operators said the windchill was dangerous), and making us go down, against the wind, tears streaming down our faces. Then there was the time he taught us to waterski in Lake Tahoe. He couldn’t understand why we complained about the frigid water — mainly because he had a wetsuit and we didn’t.

Dad was hardly mean; he just thought everything was fun, and was baffled when we didn’t. He did Indian Guides with my brother and Indian Princesses with me. Super fun experiences (I was Little Bear to his Big Bear), usually. When we went away for an Indian Princesses retreat in the Santa Cruz mountains, he again thought I should enjoy something more than I did: the polar bear plunge. Now, as a Minnesotan for more than 25 years, I know that by Midwest standards, the water wasn’t really freezing. But for a me, being forced to jump into that unheated mountain pool and swim, I thought I would die. Payback for dad came a few days later. On the last day of the retreat, we had a cookout, and the dads were really not paying attention. They were kind of over the nonstop parenting. Dad let me eat as many of those little ice cream cups with the wooden spoons (can’t you taste that splintery wood now?) as I wanted. Flash forward a few hours on the drive home — the windy drive home. I told him I didn’t feel well. He didn’t believe me. I threw up all over the back of his neck.

Good times.

I may have gotten my love of good times, and good people, from Dad. He and Mom socialized all the time, and he chatted with everyone. Their 4th of July parties were epic, and surely the inspiration for my annual Spooktacular. Dad loved a good costume — I’ll never forget the time he used Vaseline to slick his hair back for a 50s costume. Mom had to wash his hair three times with Pine Sol. Dad wasn’t exactly known for his good hair, as he had a legendary comb over for decades. Watching it fly in the wind, straight up, as he drove our boat, was always a good laugh.

I remember the day he surprised us with our first puppy, hiding Tuffy in his shirt while my brother Trevor and I sat unawares in our pjs, watching the Hardy Boys. I don’t know how he convinced Mom to get a dog, but it changed all of our lives forever.

Dad had a sweet habit of always checking on me before he went to bed, tucking me in no matter how old I was. I’m sure as a teen I rolled my eyes, but I remember those moments so vividly now, and treasure them.

Rich as a dad had big shoes to fill. Since my dad had always been present and involved, that was what I expected of my children’s father. I chose well. Rich loved hanging with kids, acting the fool and playing whatever game they wanted. He was never one to stand on the sidelines — unless they were the sidelines of a sports field. But even then he pitched in. I giggled when he volunteered to coach a soccer team one year, since he really had no idea what he was doing. But he had fun, and so did the kids.

It took him a minute to decide he was ready to have kids. I was ready almost immediately after we got married, as I wanted to be the kind of young, active parent I had had. But it took Rich’s looming 30th birthday to convince him it was time, and he never looked back, even if he sometimes infuriated me.

When I was pregnant with Carter our first, I had preeclampsia. It was clear I would not make it to full term. Or, I should say, it was clear to everyone but Rich. We lived in Ohio at the time, but Rich periodically had to fly up to Minnesota for work. When I was 37 weeks along, he had one of those trips. I told him he shouldn’t go, but he looked at me like I was nuts, insisting that I wasn’t due for 3 weeks, so he was fine.

You know where this is going.

At my 38 week check up, my blood pressure was too high. My doctor said to get it checked again in a couple days but to do it at the hospital in case they needed to induce. I called Rich and told him he should come home early. He poo-pooed me again. The night before I went in, I started having clear signs of early labor, and I called him again, asking him to come home. He grumbled, because of course his meetings weren’t done, but grudgingly agreed. In the morning I drove myself and my packed suitcase to the hospital, where they confirmed that I wouldn’t be going home. This was before cell phones, so I couldn’t contact him to see where he was. Hours went by with no word. By the afternoon, the doctor said they couldn’t wait much longer to get things moving, but I begged. Surely Rich was rushing as fast as he could?

When he finally sauntered into the room, I was so stressed out. I asked what took so long?

“The flight was overbooked and they needed volunteers.”

Wait. He gave up his seat? While his wife was in labor?

He never understood why this bothered me. In his opinion, he made it before the birth, so that’s all that mattered, right?

The second time we were in a labor and delivery room was a completely different occasion. We were about 16 weeks along with our second pregnancy, and the baby had passed away. I had to be induced to deliver the baby. We were broken, just devastated. But this time Rich was there 100%. I had called him from my appointment, sobbing, and he left work and came home. Our time in that darkened, far too quiet room was wrenching. Rich was so focused on me, and getting me through it. He put his own grieving on the back burner. But when he got to hold that baby and say goodbye, I saw the love he would have had for her, and saw in his eyes the death of dreams.

Luckily he got another chance, and just under a year later we were back. This was a normal delivery, albeit very fast. This time, he was more concerned about getting a nap, because my body had had the audacity to start the process after his bedtime. When I woke him to tell him to go get the nurse, he tried to convince me I was overreacting, and that I couldn’t possibly be ready yet. I looked him in the eye and said “Fine, but if I’m right and you’re wrong, you better be ready to catch.” He wasn’t interested in being that much of a hands-on dad, so he got the nurse, and just in time.

Rich worked hard to make sure the kids and I had everything we needed, but his commitment didn’t stop with the financial. He was eager to share in their experiences. He was so happy to impart his love of the water with the kids, excitedly introducing them to snorkeling and scuba diving. Since he could hold his breath for weirdly long amounts of time underwater, he was well known for sneaking up on kids while swimming, pulling them under for “deep shark rolls” or “alligator death rolls.”

He found many ways to bond with the kids, like playing tennis and going running with Frankie, or playing Pretty Pretty Princess. He would paint her nails and braid her hair, and he treasured her.

His time with Carter often centered around a funny bravado. I remember one of Carter’s birthday parties, where Rich’s sole duty was manning the pinata. I told him to find a good place to hang it, and he assured me he had it covered. He took the kids outside, while I stayed in to get organized for cake. I heard cheers and squeals, and went out to investigate. First thing I noticed was the neighbors watching. Curious, I rounded the house to the driveway where the kids were gathered. I followed their eyes: Rich was standing on the roof, having climbed through Carter’s window. Balancing precariously on the edge of the roof, he dangled the pinata while they swung at it wildly. I did not approve. Once again, my charming husband left me flabbergasted, and once again he was puzzled at why I was so freaked out.

Like many a good dad, he participated in things that really brought him little joy, just to make the kids happy. One time Carter and his buddies wanted to go to a Monster Truck rally, and Rich took them all. He hated the noise, and was never a fan of driving anywhere. He of course got lost on the way home, but the kids had a ball. When Frankie and then Carter joined School of Rock, we spent many a weekend on loud clubs listening to music he would never have chosen. He had terrible tinnitus, but he came to every concert. He was so proud — even if he was miserable afterwards.

We took so many trips, and while he may have grumbled a bit, he was always a willing participant. A favorite travel memory of mine was a trip to Italy. We came across an ancient site where chariots used to race in Rome, and Carter and Rich decided to race each other. Frankie and I cheered them on as they raced around the oval, and then we laughed as they both lay gasping for breath at the end. I don’t remember who won the race, but we all won the day.

He taught the kids how to make tamales and tortillas.

When the kids moved away for college or the Navy, he called them often, checking in. He helped Carter understand the world of investing, and I know how proud he was when Carter would tell him of the financial decisions he was making.

When we had to tell the kids about his ALS, he was so worried about how to do it. He wanted to make sure they would be ok. One of his biggest fears was that his disease would be genetic, and that he had passed it along to them. Thankfully, it was not.

Watching my kids say goodbye to their dad was incredibly hard. In a way, it took me back to watching him say goodbye to the baby we lost, but the tables were turned. Carter had to say his goodbyes in the Covid ward, while Frankie had to do it before hopping in a car and driving back to Michigan. They sobbed, and all I could do was hold them. And all I could do for him was hold him.

My brother reached out a few hours ago, asking me how I was doing today. I am okay. I purposefully stayed home today, as I really didn’t want to see happy families celebrating. While I can no longer celebrate with my dad or my children’s dad, I will celebrate forever the time I had with these amazing men.

I miss them both every day.