I’ve written before about my thoughts on “fatherhood” as a distinct category from “parenthood.” For the most part, I think it’s an empty distinction—or at least it should be. (For an interesting take, check out this blog post from the New York Times.) Certainly, when I talk to the babies, I refer to myself, in the third person, as “Daddy” (why do I do that, I wonder?) but I don’t really think of myself as a “dad,” or as a “father.” I think of myself as a “parent.”

Part of the reason, of course, is that when I think of “dad” I think of my dad, and he and I are two very different people, and two very different parents. In many ways, my dad actually has many of archetypal “dad” qualities. For one thing, he’s the strongest man alive. My sister tells the story that when she moved into her apartment in Manhattan, the movers didn’t show up, so my dad ended up carrying the entire moving van up two flights of stairs. One-handed. I am not the strongest man alive. In fact, I have a pile of things that are too heavy for me to lift that will be dealt with when dad comes to visit next week. When Eloise and Julian grow up, I do not expect that I will be able to uncomplainingly carry air conditioners up from their respective basements.

Dad also knows how to do stuff. He’s fielded many a late night phone call from me that went something like, “Hey, dad, how are you? Busy? So… how hard is it to unclog a garbage disposal?” or “Um, I can’t figure out how to take the glass pane out of the storm door,” or “Should we get life insurance?” or whatever. Rachel was recently remarking that my one practical skill—a rather deft hand with phone wiring—is nearly completely obsolete at this point. I mean, sure, I’ll probably be able to teach the twins how to make homemade mayonnaise or strum a G#m, but I’ll be useless when it comes to changing a tire, or jump-starting a dead battery, or caulking a bathtub.

There will be some traditional “dad” tasks I will be able to perform, of course. For instance, I’m sure I’ll embarrass them in front of their friends by telling the same jokes over and over again. I’ll probably sing too enthusiastically when driving the carpool. I’ll definitely think I’m caught up on all the hot new technology when in fact I’m years behind.

(I sometimes think about my dad when I’m changing diapers, and wonder how any parent ever takes anything their children say seriously. Someday, Julian or Eloise will come to me and express their earnest opinion on a matter of great import, and I’ll just picture them gleefully sucking on their toes while I wipe their asses clean.)

So, I don’t know about this whole “father” thing. I don’t want to deny that there are any essential differences in the way that Rachel and I relate to the babies. She, after all, grew them and personally produced the bulk of their nutrition. I didn’t. And I know as Julian and Eloise get older, the way we relate to them will inevitably become more gendered. But for now, I’m really enjoying the uncomplicated joy of parenting, and the extremely complicated pleasures of complaining to other people about what an all-consuming pain in the ass children are.

I don’t think I’ll ever be able to be the parent I want to be to them: I wish I could be the calm, cool, competent father I envisioned myself as. The fact is, I’m often frustrated, impatient, and overwhelmed by them. And yet, every lost hour of sleep, every ear-splitting shriek, every failed nap, every shirt spit up on, every new creak in my back—it’s all unquestionably worth it if it’s the price of seeing their faces light up when they see me. Adorable little rat-bastards.