Our distinct and subjective classification of the fashion choices, literary preferences, and conversational topics that seem to captivate modern-day fathers.

In the spring of 2020, shortly after embracing parenthood, my wife asked me what I wanted for Father's Day. Being a new dad still in the early stages, I felt a bit awkward about celebrating a holiday that already felt contrived. My initial inclination was to request an assortment of "Number One Dad" merchandise—a collection of cheap trinkets proudly declaring the owner as the ultimate father figure.

On the designated day, my wife thoughtfully presented me with a "Number One Dad" mug, which I occasionally use for my coffee, a "Number One Dad" t-shirt that sometimes serves as my sleepwear, and a "Number One Dad" grilling spatula, capable of imprinting hamburgers and tuna steaks. Naturally, I shared the gifts on Instagram, and they were well-received. However, I must admit that they didn't truly make me feel like a dad, let alone the number one dad. Instead, I felt like someone who responded to a significant life milestone by retreating inward.

When I think about my stepfather, the man who raised me, memories arise of him expertly wielding his grilling tongs while strolling around the deck in his apron the color of tapioca, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. I recall how he would lower the volume on national TV broadcasts of NFL games to listen to the local radio announcers, who he believed weren't "idiots." I also remember his enthusiasm for visiting maritime museums during family vacations. Now, as a father of two with three years of experience, I find myself hesitating to engage in those same activities, fearing that I would be perceived as an overly eager dad, exaggerating my role for the sake of appearances.

In 1980, essayist George W.S. Trow wrote about his father's beloved fedora hat, saying, "Irony has seeped into the felt of any fedora that I have ever owned—not out of any wish of mine, but out of necessity. A fedora hat worn by me without the necessary protective irony would eat through my head and kill me." Many dad-related signifiers evoke a similar sentiment: outdated, silly, vestigial, or naive. Consider the riding lawn mower, a relic from a time when climate change didn't make us cringe at the smell of burning gasoline. Or the hidden stash of Playboy magazines, an anachronism in the era of digital media. Or the mechanical wristwatch, an antique that can't even be used to order a pizza.

After three years of dealing with diaper blowouts and daycare-induced illnesses (ever heard of "pleurisy"? I hadn't either), I've grown more sympathetic towards the traditional ways of dads, viewing them with a sense of recognition. After all, our fathers grappled with the same essential dad dilemma we face: the delicate balance between dedicating our lives to our family's needs while maintaining enough mental space to preserve our sanity. In that context, the riding mower suddenly makes perfect sense—it offers solitude and accomplishes a necessary domestic task under the guise of being temporarily unreachable due to its loud noise.

Nonetheless, the touchstones of Boomer dad culture have outlived their relevance for younger generations. We must ask ourselves, what does dad culture look like in 2023? Does it even exist?

In the past month, I've reached out to numerous millennial fathers—friends, colleagues, and even strangers—to conduct qualitative research on the customs of the contemporary American dad.

I inquired about their clothing choices, preferred household appliances, acquired skills, favorite movies, TV shows, books, video games, opinions, conversations, and even the patterns of their thinking that define modern fatherhood.

The warm and enthusiastic responses I