50+ Children's Picture Books About Dads

from My Dad Used to Be So Cool

Ayyar, Kristin. (2013). Countdown 'til Daddy Comes Home. Illustrated by Melissa Bailey. Mascot Books.

Batten, Mary. (2003). Hey, Daddy! Animal Fathers and their Babies. Illustrated by Higgins Bond. Atlanta, GA: Peachtree Publishers.
Beatty, David. (2013). Knock Knock: My Dad's Dream for Me. Illustrated by Bryan Collier. New York:  Little, Brown Books for Young Readers.
Blake, Robert J. (1992). The Perfect Spot. New York: Philomel.
Brisson, Pam. (1999). The Summer My Father was Ten. Illustrated by Andrea Shine. Honesdale, PA: Boyds Mills Press.
Brown, Jeffrey. (2012). Darth Vader and Son. San Francisco, CA: Chronicle Books.
Browne, Anthony. (2001). My Dad. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux.
Carle, Eric. (1991). Papa, Please Get Me the Moon. New York: Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers.
Choldenko, Gennifer. (2017). Dad and the Dinosaur. Illustrated by Dan Santat. New York: G.P. Putnma.
Collard III, Sneed B. (2000). Animal Dads.  Illustrated by Steve Jenkins. New York: HMH Books.
Coy, Jon. (2009). Two Old Potatoes and Me. Illustrated by Carolyn Fisher. Minneapolis, MN: Nodin Press.
Coy, Jon. (2001). Night Driving. Illustrated by Peter McCarty. New York: Square Fish.
Cornwall, Gaia. (2017). Jabari Jumps. Somerville, MA; Candlewick.
Creech, Sharon. (2004). Fishing in the Air. Illustrated by Chris Raschka. New York: HarperCollins.

from Night Catch

Ehrmantraut, Brenda. (2014). Night Catch. Illustrated by Vicki Wehrman. St. Paul, MN: Elva Resa.

Feiffer, Jules. (2004).  The Daddy Mountain. New York: Hyperion Books for Children.

Garland, Michael. (2017). Daddy Played the Blues. Thomaston, ME: Tilbury House Publishers.
Grimes, Nikki. (2004). When Daddy Prays. Illustrated by Tim Ladwig. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans Publishers.

Hardin, Melinda.(2010). Hero Dad.  Illustrated by Bryan Langdo. Tarrytown, NY: Two Lions.

Holmberg, Bo. (2008).  A Day with Dad. Illustrated by Eva Eriksson. Somerville, MA: Candlewick.
Hong, Nari. (2017). Days with Dad. Brooklyn, NY: Enchanted Lion Books.
Ichikawa, Satomi. (2006). My Father's Shop. San Francisco, CA: Kane/Miller Books.
Jalali, Reza. (2017). Moon Watchers. Illustrated by Anne Sibley O'Brien. Thomaston, ME: Tilbury House Publishers.
Jiang, Ji-li. (2013). Red Kite, Blue Kite. Illustrated by Ruth Greg. New York: Hyperion.
Johnson, Angela. (2000). Daddy Calls me Man. Illustrated by Rhonda Mitchell. New York: Scholastic.

from The Better Tree Fort

Kerrin, Jessica Scott. (2018). The Better Tree Fort. Illustrated by Qin Leng. Toronto, ON: Groundwood Books.
Kirk, Connie Ann. (2004). Sky Dancers. Illustrated by Christy hale. New York: Lee & Low Books.
Krishnaswami, Uma. (2015). Bright Sky, Starry City. Illustrated by Aimée Sicuro. Toronto, ON: Groundwood Books.
Kvasnosky, Laura McGee. (2017). Little Wolf's First Howling. Illustrated by Kate Harvey McGee. Somerville, MA: Candlewick.
Lakin, Patricia, (2014). Dad and Me in the Morning. Illustrated by Roger G. Steele. Morton Grove, IL: Albert Whitman & CO.
Lawson, JonArno. (2015). Sidewalk Flowers. Illustrated by Sydney Smith. Toronto, ON: Groundwood Books.
Lo, Rich. (2014). Father's Chinese Opera. New York: Sky Pony Press.

from My Father's Arms Are a Boat

Lunde, Stein Erik. (2013).  My Father's Arms Are a Boat. Illustrated by Øyvind Torseter. Translated by Kari Dickson. Brooklyn, NY: Enchanted Lions Book.
McGhee, Holly M. (2017). Come With Me. Illustrated by Pascal Lemaître. New York: G.P. Putnam's Sons.

Negley, Keith. (2016). My Dad Used to Be So Cool. London: Fly Eye Books.
Reynolds, Luke. (2017). If My love  Were a Fire Truck: A Daddy's Love Song. Illustrated by Jeff Mack. New York: Doubleday Books.

Robertson, Carolyn. (2014). Two Dads: A Book about Adoption. Illustrated by Sophie Humphreys.  Sparklypoo Publications.
Rowland, Joanna. (2014). Always Mom, Forever Dad. Illustrated by Penny Weber.  Thomaston, ME: Tilbury House Publishers.
Ryder, Joanne. (1994). My Father's Hands. Illustrated by Mark Graham. New York: Harper Collins.

Sellars, Willie (Williams Lake Indian Band - T’exelc). (2014). Dipnetting with Dad. Illustrated by Kevin Easthope. Halfmoon Bay, BC: Caitlin Press.
Sharp, N.L. (2016). Today I'm Going Fishing with My Dad. Illustrated by Chris Demarest. Freemont, NE: Prairieland Press.
Smalls, Irene. (1999). Kevin and His Dad. Illustrated by Michael Hays. New York: Little Brown.

Smith, Anita Hope. (2017). My Daddy Rules the World: Poems About Dads. New York: Henry Holt.
Steptoe, Javaka. (2013). In Daddy's Arms I am Tall: African Americans Celebrating Fathers. New York: Lee & Low Books.
Tanco, Miguel. (2017). You and Me, Me and You. San Francisco, CA: Chronicle Books.
Uhlberg, Myron. (2010). Dad, Jackie, and Me. Illustrated by Colin Bootman. Atlanta. GA: Peachtree.
Waber, Bernard. (2015). Ask Me. Illustrated by Suzy Lee. New York: HMH Books for Young Readers.
Williams, Mo. (2004). Knuffle Bunny: A Cautionary Tale. New York: Hyperion.
Willis, Jeanne. (2003). Don't Let Go.  Illustrated by Tony Ross. New York: Outnam.
Wing, Natasha. (1996). Jalapeno Bagels. Illustrated by Robert Casilla. New York: Atheneum.

Woodson, Jacqueline. (2015). Visiting Day. Illustrated by James Ransome. New York: Puffin Books.
Wyeth, Sharon. (1998). Always My Dad. Illustrated by Raul Colon. New York: Scholastic.
Yacarrino, Dan. (2012). Every Friday. New York: Square Fish.

Yolen, Jane. (2010). My Father Knows the Names of Things. Illustrated by Stephanie Jorisch. New York: Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers. 

#SOL16: A Son and the Word of God

The New Fire Truck 

I.

When I think of the many ways that Rob loved his son, I am reminded of a line from Cormac McCarthy's The Road. At the beginning of the novel, the father is speaking about his son and says, "He knew only that his child was his warrant. He said: If he is not the word of God God never spoke."

The word of God. Yes, that is how complete and full Rob's love for Devon was. But now and again I wonder if Devon will really remember his dad.  He is just 17. Will he be able to still hear the sound of his dad's voice? Will he recall the many car trips? Will he recall watching each episode of Stars Wars with him multiple times save the most recent one that his dad could not see? Will he remember how his dad smelled? How he walked? The sound of his laugh? The way he ran his hands through his loose hair gathering the strands into a pony tale? How he looked you in the eyes so directly when you spoke?

My mom and me

What memories will remain after a year?
Ten years?
Forty years?
What will he most remember about his Dad?

II.

On the bureau in our bedroom is a photograph of my mom and me. I am most likely 12, just a few years younger than Devon is now.  When I look at the photo, I realize that I can't recall much of anything from that time--and certainly nothing related to how I was feeling or the way my mom was. That time is quite lost. I'm astounded by what I can't recall. Viewing the image has me wondering how much of the time Dev spent with his dad will he really remember as the decades march by.

#SOL16: Passing

Rob at home.

Yesterday, March 8th at 4:30 p.m. the world lost a beautiful man. My husband, Rob Cohen, passed in the arms of his son and me.

The world is more grey.

He, however, has found peace that eluded him during his six-month struggle with lung cancer.

I love him more than words can name.

Don't forget to leave some breadcrumbs, Rob...

Mary Ann's One Little Word for 2015

Possibilities (M.A. Reilly, 2015)

"Quien canta, sus males espanta"

"He who sings scares his woes away"  - Cervantes 

I.

Last week I opened my Facebook stream to see a photograph of my dad staring back at me.

A surprise, that.

A cousin had posted my father's image--one made while he was overseas in England during World War II.  My father is dead--a decade now this last November.

There in that pixelated bit of magic, he's beautiful, unmarred, anticipating perhaps his return home where he will marry my mother and they will adopt three kids from Ireland, take them across the country to camp, sing to them, and show us by action what it means to live deliberately, what it means to love deeply.

These are lessons I carry with me--ones that formed my bones.

I study the image as if some secret might reveal itself and even though the image is not in color, I still see his hazel eyes clearly, perhaps more clearly here than I did in life. I hear his voice, the songs he sang.

And here, now, my Da has done the impossible: Returned from death and is now several decades younger than me and somehow this juxtaposition of role, this slight of hand, this trick of time has me thinking about being open to possibilities.

II.

I know almost nothing and am the better for it. I learned this early.

My Da told me that when I first came to America I was afraid of him.  At 6' 2" tall, he towered over me. I had just turned 2 and the only man I was told I had seen while at the orphanage in Dublin was a doctor who stuck needles in my upper arms--most likely the inoculations I needed to enter the United States.  My mom had gone to church the Sunday morning after I arrived and I cried at her leaving, curled myself by the front door waiting for her to return, curled myself away from my father who sat in his chair in the living room--the chair that sat angled by the back windows. He told me he watched me and waited until cried out, I fell asleep. He then walked across the room, picked me up, and sometime later I woke up in his arms, safe, present, and perhaps I began to learn the first definition of home I would know.

I like to think that this is why he used to play this game with me--one I'm sure he must have tired from and yet he did it night after night.  He would sit me on the edge of his knees as he sat in his over sized chair and then open his legs quickly and I would fall through giggling, climb back up as he lifted me and fall through again and again and again until the call of my mom from the kitchen signaling dinner ended our game.  And each time, each fall was slightly different, slightly unexpected, something to anticipate. The very definition of possibilities.

He did this while he sung to me the same lyrics over and over:

For it is Mary, Mary
Plain as any name can be
But with propriety, society will say Marie
But it was Mary, Mary
Long before the fashions came
And there is something there that sounds so square
It's a grand old name

I thought he had written the song for me, just as he had named me, and I loved how we blended our voices together to sing with such dramatic flair:  It's a grand old name.


III.

We were a family who knew music, not by what we had been taught, but rather by what we felt--a tacit way of knowing--one we could not bear to code. There was always a radio on in the kitchen. There was always a piano in the living room and now and then fingers to tickle the keys. Later there would be guitars, recorders, flutes, 8-track tapes, an Irish drum.

But above all, there was the human voice.

Only my Da who would call my mom, Kate.  He said it with such affection. And sometimes he would sing to her too and I would join in thinking the song with its repetition of sounds was so funny.  We would serenade her:

K-K-K-Katy, beautiful Katy,
You're the only g-g-g-girl that I adore;
When the m-m-m-moon shines,
Over the cowshed,
I'll be waiting at the k-k-k-kitchen door.

IV.

I am told that there are thirty-six muscles that are used in breathing for singing. Without these muscles air can't enter or leave the lungs.  I learned early that dwelling was its own type of song. And I wonder how I ever could have forgotten so quickly that it was my Da who sung often, who sung daily.  How I needed this image of him to shake loose another memory.

We forget more than we know.

My one little word for the year is possibilities.  It is woven to this memory of my father and me singing.  As I make my way through this new year, I want to remember how possibilities are present alongside each breath I make, each breath I expel.   Today, here, now, I breathe in and feel the air settle low, exhale the old breath, and at the onset of sound, I sing out.





*Note, I saw this type of post over at Two Teachers blog and thought I would have a go of it.

Forgetfulness  (M.A. Reilly, 2010)

Mnemonic

Li-Young Lee, 1957

I was tired. So I lay down.
My lids grew heavy. So I slept.
Slender memory, stay with me.

I was cold once. So my father took off his blue sweater.
He wrapped me in it, and I never gave it back.
It is the sweater he wore to America,
this one, which I’ve grown into, whose sleeves are too long,
whose elbows have thinned, who outlives its rightful owner.
Flamboyant blue in daylight, poor blue by daylight,
it is black in the folds.

A serious man who devised complex systems of numbers and rhymes
to aid him in remembering, a man who forgot nothing, my father
would be ashamed of me.
Not because I’m forgetful,
but because there is no order
to my memory, a heap
of details, uncatalogued, illogical.
For instance:
God was lonely. So he made me.
My father loved me. So he spanked me.
It hurt him to do so. He did it daily.

The earth is flat. Those who fall off don’t return.
The earth is round. All things reveal themselves to men only gradually.

It won’t last. Memory is sweet.
Even when it’s painful, memory is sweet.

Once I was cold. So my father took off his blue sweater.