This is an opinion column

A former college student of mine greeted me when I saw him at the grocery store last month. He stopped me in the produce aisle to share the news: He was going to be a father, he announced proudly. And he was going to be a hands-on father, not just a “diaper dad” like some of his friends.

What that meant — and I had to ask — was that he would do more than just show up with bags of Pampers. He would actually rock the baby, stroll the baby, feed the baby, and yes, change the baby. Oh, and he would help his soon-to-be wife with setting up the nursery with all that equipment babies seem to need.

There hadn’t been a dad in his life, he said, so he was going to be a dad in his child’s life, starting with the first ultrasound and moving on to the cap and gown ceremony 18 years from now. I don’t know where he’ll be on Father’s Day — maybe putting a crib together or helping his fiancé wash and fold tiny onesies that babies go through so fast.

Maybe he’ll be like Martin’s father. A book by the same name is somewhere in my house, on the back of a shelf or in a closet. I’ve written about it before. It was lost then. It’s lost now. If you have a house full of books, you know how that can happen.

“Martin’s Father,” written by Margaret Eichler and illustrated by Bev Magennis, was published in 1971 by Lollipop Power, a small publishing group in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. The group — and I was proud to be part of it for a time — published simple children’s books that featured fathers being nurturers, children of all races being main characters, and children’s books that didn’t have to include robots, spaceships, or monsters. Simple story lines carried the simple message.

The message was that Martin and his father had a good day, all by themselves. Mother may have been at work, or out of town, or on her way home, but the two fellows were doing just fine, thank you.

Well, of course, we might say today. But 52 years ago this was news to some people who didn’t give fathers credit for being nurturing parents, just like mom was. Martin’s father takes him to the playground where Martin does what kids do: hang from the monkey-bars, go down the slide, and swing up in the air.

Back at home, Martin’s father makes sandwiches for their lunch and puts Martin down for a nap, covering him with a blanket to keep him warm. Later on, the two make dinner together, read a book, and then it’s light’s out. Martin and his father have had a good day. End of story. End of book. This is a boring book, some might say. But so much of parenting is mundane. The main idea is to be there, day after day, mopping up spilled juice and putting on a band-aid after a playground injury. Telling the same story night after night and finding the stuffed animal under the bed. There now. Go to sleep, says the weary mother or the weary father.

More than fifty years after “Martin’s Father” was published, we’ve learned some things: Black fathers matter. White fathers matter. Fathers showing up in their children’s lives matter. If you were lucky, you had one. If you’re very lucky, you married one.

I hope I run into my former student at the grocery store in a few months. Maybe he’ll be the father with a shopping cart full of diapers and a baby sleeping quietly in his carrier, happy being more than the child of just a diaper dad.

Contact Beth Thames at [email protected]