Debra Pickett

He works full time, preferably at a job that provides an income large enough to render his wife's financial contribution completely optional. But he doesn't work too much because he's expected to show up at soccer games and school plays. He has the kind of hands-on relationship with his kids that his father never had with him. He wakes up for 2 a.m. feedings, changes diapers and does not use the term "baby-sitting" when describing the time he spends alone with his children.

These things are all points of pride with the modern dad, who knows that should he ever slip up and admit that he'd really prefer a round of golf with his buddies to a tea party with his 5-year-old daughter, he would be quickly dismissed as a Cro-Magnon throwback.

Not a lot of choices for Dad

The sheer array of "choices" -- or, if you're a stickler for truth in advertising, "massively complicated, mutually exclusive and seemingly irrevocable life decisions" -- for mothers was overwhelming to me even before I was pregnant.

But for my husband, things were relatively straightforward. He was obligated to fetch a pint of Heath Bar Crunch ice cream whenever I demanded it, to tell me that I was "glowing," and to read, with enthusiasm, the "Your Baby, Week by Week" e-mails we get each Sunday afternoon that fill us in on the week's developmental milestones, generally in terms of comparing the baby's current size to a fruit or vegetable.

Beyond this, we both figured, there wasn't much else for him to do.

We'd clearly missed the "modern dad" memo.

Because when I started having regular doctor's appointments, I got a look at how modern dad-hood begins. I was, in fact, one of a distinct minority of women sitting alone in my obstetrician's large waiting room.

And these fathers-to-be were not, as I was, killing time by reading a magazine or scanning their e-mails. They were studying up for their appointments, making lists of questions in their leather-bound notebooks, already busily fulfilling their all-important partner-and-coach role.

"Do you, um, want to come to the doctor's office with me?" I asked my husband before the next appointment.

"Do you want me to?" he asked skeptically, knowing that I have an almost fanatical devotion to keeping certain things, especially bodily functions, private.

"Not particularly," I said, "but I thought you might want to be there."

"Is there anything I need to do?" he asked. Because he'd happily give me a pint of blood or an internal organ. But just sitting there, without anything to contribute, seemed utterly ridiculous to him.

And all I could really offer was the lame explanation that all the other guys seemed to be doing it.

Celebrating the retro Dad

Since then, we've come to terms with our old-fashioned leanings. And we've learned to keep them pretty much to ourselves.

After all, for the modern dad, it's "our" pregnancy and "our" delivery, the beginning of the shared experience of raising a child together. The modern dad enthusiastically shares labor stories and tales of colic. When he is not physically present, he gets cell phone and e-mail updates on his child's progress throughout the day. He knows about every tear and every skinned knee.

Being "detached" from these experiences is considered hopelessly retro. Even irresponsible.

That's why we have to keep quiet about our plans for parenthood. Because, while I have no doubt that my husband will make an awesome father, he will probably not quite live up to the don't-miss-a-minute expectations of modern dad-hood. And, for that, I'm exceedingly glad.

This is partly because I want us to have something to talk about other than our kid. But it's mainly because I really liked growing up with a pre-modern dad, the kind who kept a little distance from the daily ins and outs of raising me.

My dad was the role model for my college years and career, the person I trusted for objective counsel and no-BS assessments.

While my mom dried my tears and taped a million Band-Aids on my perpetually skinned knees, my dad was the one who had the nerve to take the training wheels off my bike. Which, it turns out, is one of the best gifts a parent can give a kid.