Without a doubt, this weekend is going to be one of the toughest yet.

To say I am dreading Father’s Day is an understatement.

I know I should be embracing it as an opportunity to celebrate the wonderful dad that Steve was, and we will certainly try to do that, but like everything else these days, it’s just hard.

Steve being a dad is one of the easiest things in the world to celebrate because he was just so darn good at it.

When I think back to the guy I knew in high school, I never would have imagined that he would take to being a dad like a fish to water, but he did.

I had always wanted a pile of kids. A few of each, didn’t matter girls or boys as long as they were healthy. I had no idea how I would come to rue that statement. Steve didn’t get intimidated or think I was crazy when I said I’d consider up to four or five kids, but definitely at least two and hopefully more than that.

In this day and age, having a whole bunch of kids can seem a little irresponsible, but over my years of coaching, I’d noticed that bigger families were almost always happier families, and the kids seemed to thrive in a “roll with the punches” kind of way that smaller families didn’t quite have.

While Steve didn’t have any specific requirements in mind, he was definitely on board with kids, plural. Of course he imagined little men that he could take hunting and fishing, but he always planned on making outdoors kids out of whatever sex kids we had.

When we were first expecting A, he wanted to be surprised. I did not want to be surprised. We’d had enough surprises already with A’s heart defect. I wanted to control and prepare for the few things I could. Those few months of me knowing and him not knowing was the only time I’d ever kept a true secret from him, and it was not easy.

A trip to Cabela’s resulted in the purchase of multiple little camouflage onesies. Steve was very quick to point out the gender-neutral properties of good camouflage, and I had to admit he had a point. I would soon become amazed at exactly how many different articles of baby clothing come in camouflage.

From booties to hats to baby overalls, it seemed that every time Steve had to stop and buy ammunition or get fishing line, something new came home with him. He assured me that the rugged durability of baby hunting clothing would make them last for however many kids we had. I rolled my eyes a lot, especially while I was preparing a yellow and green sheep themed nursery and hiding blue baby clothes in the closet.

Steve was the most hands-on dad from the moment the kids were born and continued to be that way right up until the day he died.

Although I think by the time E came along, he was pretty well ensconced in being a boy dad, he jumped right in to the pinks and purples. Somehow, the camouflage baby clothes that he assured me would last through all of our kids weren’t good enough and he had to get the pink trimmed stuff for his little girl.

Even though he spent plenty of time teaching her all about big bucks and how to call for turkeys, he was just as happy to have a tea party or pretend to eat up whatever creative dish she’d made for him in her play kitchen.

I’m grateful now that Steve was so invested and spent so much time solely focused on the kids. At the time, I sometimes felt shut out, or maybe even a little jealous of the “fun dad” role he played, while I ran around being the responsible one who ruined the fun.

Now, however, having tried to walk a mile or two in his shoes, I now know that being the fun and hands-on one is equally if not more difficult than being the not so fun one. Maybe it’s because this isn’t my natural role, or maybe because I’m trying to navigate both roles, but it’s a daily struggle to be as invested in my kids with my time and energy as he was. He made it look so easy.

If the situation were reversed, and he were here instead of me, I believe he might feel the same way about all the carefully orchestrated schedules and menus and appointments I coordinated, except that he was one of the main gears that kept our well-oiled machine functional, and without him, I can’t even do my old jobs very well.

I recently had a conversation with someone who said it must be so hard to have to be the mom and the dad now. In some ways, like now I have to be the one who remembers when the cars need oil changes, and when the smoke alarm batteries have to be replaced, and taking care of mowing the lawn, yes, I guess I did have to take on the dad role.

But when it comes to being my kids’ father, he was absolutely irreplaceable in every way. I can’t spin a tale that lasted years about the “coal witch” who lived in our basement. I can’t remember a single line to an Irish drinking song.

I can’t replicate his godawful dance moves that made the kids laugh hysterically when they were younger and made them run screaming when they got older. I can’t do any of the millions of little things he did all day every day to let each kid know how loved and special they were to him.

What I can do is remind the kids each and every day how much he loved them with every fiber of his being and truly blessed he felt to be their father. Every day in our house is a Father’s Day.

Liz Pinkey is a contributing writer to the Times News. Her column appears weekly in our Saturday feature section.