Monday, June 17, 2013


Reposted from Facebook for Fathers' Day

I spent part of my evening pitching wiffle balls for several of the neighborhood kids to bat. It was fun, teaching little three-, four-, and seven-year-olds to line up for the pitch, square their little shoulders, hold their bats correctly. I did that because they all love playing wiffle ball with my amazing husband, Greg Mamula, and even though he was away tonight, I felt so grateful that my kids get to call him their Daddy. 

And my kids are lucky to have such a good father, who also has a wonderful father in Peter Mamula. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, and Peter's one of the best "trees" I know. He's raised two wonderful kids, and I love being a part of his family.

But I'm only well enough to be a part of this family because in 1997, Phil Jester had the courage to take a drug-addled, black-fingernailed, burnout teenager into his family. Phil didn't have to be a father to me; he didn't know me, bore no responsibility for my well being, but he chose to be my father, to let me call him Daddy, and I here because of his decision to love me. I miss you, Dad.

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