The image of Daniel Thompson sprawled on the living room floor felt more in line with 2022 than 1992—or even 1982, when I was growing up. Back then, particularly among my father and his peers, the idea of actively engaging in daily parenting was virtually unheard of.
Certainly, some of this reluctance stemmed from a time when the women’s liberation movement hadn’t yet made significant strides, especially in the suburban areas where we lived. The so-called “problem that has no name” may well have been a husband who did little more than leave for work each day. Yet, I also believe that the detachment of dads back then can be partly attributed to the young age at which many became fathers. I have photos of my dad at 22 looking much like a modern-day 22-year-old: late morning, still in his undershirt and boxers, likely nursing a hangover, and sporting a face full of acne.
What sets that snapshot apart from today’s 22-year-olds? He’s cradling his infant daughter, my eldest sibling. Honestly, at that age, he should not have been entrusted with the care of anything more delicate than a houseplant.
Now 71, my father has never boiled a pot of water in his life. As the father of four daughters and five granddaughters, he has never changed a diaper. I often hear my mother recount a story (with no bitterness, I might add) of returning home from shopping to find me wandering in a onesie, soaked in my own mess, simply because my dad wouldn’t change diapers. In his defense, that was still preferable to when my mother hosted a gathering and one of her friends had to leave because her husband deemed it too bothersome to deal with a crying child.
My most vivid memories of childhood involve my father taking my sisters and me to the local Fairgrounds, where he would treat it like a driving range, hitting golf balls for us to chase across the sunbaked grass. On Sunday nights, while he watched 60 Minutes, we took turns massaging his feet or scratching his head, as he convinced us that such attention would promote hair growth—playing into our fear of having a bald father.
My father has never read a book to a child, which I find incredibly disheartening on so many levels. I often wish there were a way to bottle the comforting scent of my daughter’s hair as she leans against me while I read her a story. Yet, despite recognizing this as one of parenting’s purest joys, I can’t help but feel a pang of anxiety when my husband, Ryan, reads to our daughter during our visits to my parents’ house. I often find myself wondering, “What would my dad think of this?”
This concern arises whenever I observe Ryan engaging with our daughter, whether it’s retrieving an item from a high cabinet for her. I can’t shake the thought that my father would view Ryan as somehow less masculine for performing such nurturing acts.
This instinct to shield Ryan from my dad’s antiquated judgments is peculiar, yet it’s instinctive. Ryan, bless him, is well aware of the dynamics: we tactfully avoid discussing politics or the news with my conservative father, and we maintain an unspoken agreement that Ryan can adopt a more traditional male role when we’re at my parents’ home. There was even a time when, en route to their house, I watched Ryan wrestle a baby stroller and a bulky golf bag into the trunk of an overcrowded car, only for him to ultimately leave the stroller behind.
Generationally, many fathers today cannot simply “switch off” their involvement. Even when Ryan leans into a more traditional role at my parents’ home, he still plays an active role in our daughter’s life. He wakes up early to prepare her breakfast, takes her on beach excursions, and encourages her curiosity about the world around her. The real question I should ponder, beyond my dad’s outdated views, is: What would my mother think? And trust me, she sees Ryan as nothing short of a hero.
In conclusion, the contrast between old-fashioned parenting styles and modern dad engagement can spark judgment and reflection, but it also highlights the evolving nature of fatherhood and the values we choose to embrace.