As a new paternal unit, I pondered what I wanted to be called by our children. For some reason, I wanted them to call me Papa. I’m not sure why. Maybe because that’s what their mother had always called her paternal unit in Russia where she was born and raised. Papa. I liked the sound of it. Like millions of families, our girls heard a mixture of two languages in their first few years. The one I liked to hear was, “Papa.” “Where’s Papa?” “Papas’ home.” “Papa’s going to class.” “Go tell Papa we’re ready to eat.” “Papa’s going to read you a story.” I very much loved being called…