A ‘Day’ Especially for Dads : New Pop Bill McCoy Compiles a Moving Chronicle of Fatherhood in the ‘90s

Is the office getting a little crazy? Try reasoning with a toddler when she throws her first tantrum in public. Being Dad is the toughest work you’ll ever take on--and nobody thanks you for it.

But the rewards are equally intense:

From the minute I held our newborn daughter in my arms, I felt proud as never before. Alex has brought new laughter and love into our home, and if the chores of fatherhood are immense, so are the daily joys she gives us. Life would be unimaginable without her.

Since my first Father’s Day last year, I’ve met other men who rave about their kids the same way. It’s better than any locker room talk, and it makes us humble. After all, we’re just ordinary guys, totally smitten with our children.

You won’t see us on TV, even though our numbers are growing. We’re everywhere, so that makes us boring. Maybe someone should write a book.

Enter Bill McCoy.

An amiable fellow, he’s the only male editor at Parents magazine in New York and the proud father of Amanda, a rambunctious 2 1/2-year-old. In 1993, he organized a poll on fatherhood for readers, and the experience rocked him. The dads who responded sent in poems, drawings, photographs, songs and passionate essays about their kids. All wish they could spend more time with them.

“It was such an outpouring of love,” he says. “The guys who wrote in were down-to-earth people, like insurance agents, truck drivers and military men. They were eloquent, and we don’t hear these kind of voices every day.”

When his boss suggested he write a book about fatherhood, McCoy, 41, jumped at the chance. The result is “Father’s Day” (Times Books), a humorous and moving chronicle of what it means to be a new dad in the 1990s.

Although bookstores are flooded with works on fatherhood, few have the ring of authenticity that echoes through McCoy’s slender volume. He puts himself on display, warts and all. The result is a dizzying jumble of ups and downs.

“How could two years scoot by so quickly?” he asks his wife, Sharon.

“Time flies when you’re shell-shocked,” she answers.

McCoy devotes an entire chapter to the joys of bathing a baby. Another details the trauma he experienced when Amanda was in danger of getting heart disease. There are painful passages about children and marital tensions.

Mostly, though, the book is rollicking and good-humored. The last thing McCoy wants to do is put on airs. He acknowledges that fathers have a long way to go, especially when it comes to sharing child-rearing responsibilities.

In a perfect world, he suggests, men and women would each work a half week and divide child-care responsibilities. Until then, the imbalance is a problem.

“All I wanted to do is talk about what gives me pleasure as a father, and what troubles me,” McCoy says. “The worst thing you can do is tell another man what kind of dad he should be. Each man invents it for himself.”

*

Sometimes, you make it up on the spot. On a balmy morning, I set out to interview McCoy in his New Jersey country home. Since we’re talking about family, I’ve brought along my wife and Alex, now 15 months. This is a journalistic first for me, but as a Geezer Dad, I’m ready for anything.

Naturally, there are interruptions: Alex demands a bagel after cruising Amanda’s playroom. She’s fascinated by the horses flicking their tails in a corral outside. When she tumbles accidentally to the grass, she bursts into tears. “Bye-bye!” she announces, dusting herself off and walking away.

“Daddy’s writing a story,” I try to explain as we pick our way through a train wreck of toys in the author’s living room.

“Baby!” answers Alex.

If ever an author looked the part, it’s McCoy. Padding about in khakis, polo shirt and moccasins, he’s got the smooth confidence of a parent who’s seen it all . . . at least the first 30 months. At this moment--with his daughter whirling through the house--my questions are the least of his concerns.

Why did he write the book? Is he representative of other dads?

“We have so many negative images of fathers today . . . the deadbeat dad, the abusive father, so the word father seems to have a negative connotation,” McCoy begins. “But that’s not the world I live in. I think that. . . .”

Suddenly, there’s a shriek of protest. Alex has a bagel, but Amanda does not. McCoy’s daughter races up to him at the table and demands one of her own.

“Sankoo!” she says, scampering back to the living room.

McCoy resumes his thought, recalling the story of David Williams, the Houston Oilers football player who sparked an uproar by missing an NFL game to witness the birth of his first child. Was he a New Age hero or a Sunday wimp?

“I’m struck by the fact that so much was made over something that was so ordinary,” McCoy says. “But I guess this incident really galvanized people.

“Most guys like you and me don’t grind people into the Astroturf for a living,” he explains. “Our masculinity, our testosterone level is not part of our job description. We just want to be good fathers. It’s no big deal.”

There are other questions--about the legacies of our own dads--but they’ll have to wait. Alex and Amanda are playing in the front yard, and both look like they’re beginning to fade. Time to pack up the toys and go home.

“What can I say that most fathers don’t already know?” says McCoy, as we stuff bags of baby gear into the back seat and fire up the Clampitt-mobile.

“There’s no secret to this parenting stuff . . . you just jump in.”

*

Once upon a time, a man had role models.

Robert Young carried himself with dignity. Danny Thomas blustered his way through life, but he had a heart of gold. Ditto for Dick Van Dyke, Desi Arnaz and the rest of the gang. Where is Ozzie Nelson when you need him?

McCoy is serious, spending a whole chapter on this question. Nelson may have been a doofus in a cardigan, the author says, but he was devoted to his family and allowed his son Ricky to play rock ‘n’ roll at a time when millions thought it was the devil’s music. How’s that for understanding?

Today, McCoy complains, we lack TV icons giving Dad his due. Beyond John Goodman on “Roseanne,” there aren’t many guys to look up to. Then again, he concedes, it’s probably all for the best. Fatherhood is evolving nicely, and we can’t make it too precious. Being dad is a lifetime job; it’s not just some pop-culture trend.

“America shouldn’t make [fatherhood] into the flavor of the month,” McCoy says. “If we do, some men will make a good show out of being devoted fathers for a short while. Then they’ll say, ‘OK, I’ve done all this, now I can go back to watching TV.’ You’re either there for your kid or you’re not.”

The very next night, I’m up at 4 a.m. But it’s Alex who can’t sleep. She’s been sick lately and is tossing unhappily in her crib. When I bring her to the living room, a smile blossoms on her face. It’s party time.

“Book!” she says, clutching “The Three Little Pigs” and plopping down on my lap. When I finish reading it aloud, she grabs another. We roll through “Goodnight Moon” and “Bunny’s Hungry.” “Elmo Under the Sea” starts her bopping, and “Barney at the Seashore” makes her squeal with delight.

Will she ever get tired? I look at the green VCR clock, and it’s blinking 5 a.m. The city is still asleep, and my head begins to nod. Suddenly, a little finger pokes me in the chest. It’s my daughter, giving me a wake up call.

“Da-Da!” she says. “Da-Da!”

Happy Father’s Day.