Fitz: Father's Day is a day to remember every sensation

I can’t let Father’s Day pass without getting sappier than an afternoon special on the Lifetime Channel drizzled with the syrup of high-grade treacle. Here’s what I loved and still love about being a dad, a patriarch, the Homer Simpson of my dynasty:

The moment you held your newborn under the stars and whispered your welcome. “Behold the universe, Pee Wee.”

The unforgettable feeling of your toddler squeezing your little pinkie finger for dear life with their entire hand. “Let’s go, Mini-Me.”

The unforgettable thrill of the first, “Dada.” In my case it was the first “Dadoo.” It’s amazing we can be charmed by the same sweet voices that can shatter crystal and break your will, if need be.

The unforgettable daddy detective work triggered by the question: “Why are you crying?”

The unforgettable warmth of a child falling asleep on top of your chest on a sofa-bound Saturday afternoon. Sweetest slumber I know, drool pools and milk spittle aside.

The first unprovoked hug and “I love you, Dad.” What was that? What did I do? What did I say? Come back! Give me another!

The unforgettable delight of answering their first big questions about the world, God, the stars, birth and death. And the unforgettable mischief of, “Go ask your mother.” The first of many dodges. Some Fathers are gifted that way.

The unforgettable theater of reviewing the report cards like I was a Parole Board. “Do not pass go. Do not collect your allowance. Show me your Get-out-of-Jail-Free card.”

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The unforgettable teaching moments: Teaching empathy, the virtue of masculine kindness and how to deal with bullies. “Stand your ground. I got your back. Do the right thing.”

Every last nature hike, summer road trip, bike ride and idle afternoon in the street out front playing catch. And the pure love of yelling from the bleachers at your kid’s game. Decades later, I still have the metal bleacher ridges permanently stamped on my behind.

The unforgettably intense emotions of witnessing graduation, moving out, college, getting a job and, ye Gods, marriage and grandkids. “Where did the time go? Why is my father staring back at me in the bathroom mirror these days? Is that hair in my ears?”

The unforgettable stack of misspelled handmade Father’s Day cards piling up in your bureau drawer that they will find when you leave the world and they divide up your stuff:

“Hapy Father’s Day.”

“World’s Greatist Dad.”

“One in a Milllion.”

The best of all has to be the unforgettable moment when you know your kids will be OK without you. I was mesmerized, watching of all three of my kids reuniting, talking and laughing on the sidewalk one recent afternoon. Daughter Sarah has two kids of her own and a wonderful husband, Dave’s an ambitious handsome young man and the 16-year-old is a kind and cool giant. I quietly watched a tight loving family that would get along fine, and flourish, long after I was gone. I watched in quiet wonder at what I had wrought until they all looked at me with their “What are you looking at?” faces. “Nothing. Let’s grab lunch!”

Life will go on. My job here was done. There is no better Father’s Day gift than that.