After dropping off my kindergartner one rainy morning, I found myself exiting the schoolyard behind a father who worked at one of those knuckle-busting jobs where a man gets intimately acquainted with dirt, steel and sweat. He wore an oil-stained cap, dust-covered boots and a quilt-lined Carhartt jacket, and in his thick hands he held his daughter’s tiny pink lunchbox.

I complimented him on his accessory, and he in turn praised the pink Dora umbrella I carried. There was a time, we both agreed, when toting such items in public might have made us self-conscious of our manhood. But fatherhood had changed us, given us perspective. The needs of our school-age daughters came first, our public image ranked way down the list, and we expressed no regrets.

In fact, virtually all fathers I meet most mornings at the elementary school seem happy. This could be related to the fact that we’re dropping off our kids. (The mood is more somber at afternoon pick-up, where I’m one of the few fathers in a crowd made up mostly of mothers and baby sitters, all braced for the tasks ahead.) But I’m convinced joy can be found in simply being a father, particularly for those of us who take an active role in our children’s lives.

Not that it’s easy. In my case, I’ve set myself up for failure because I’ve adopted what I call the Atticus Finch Ideal of fatherhood, named for the wise and principled dad in Harper Lee’s “To Kill a Mockingbird” (and memorably played by Gregory Peck in the 1962 film). I shouldn’t hold myself to this unattainable ideal, but I can’t help it. I want my daughter to learn right from wrong based on my noble example, and I won’t be convinced of my success until that day when the oppressed whisper in my girl’s ear, “Stand up. Your father’s passing.” Wish me luck.<!--more-->

Meanwhile, I do what I can to add a little testosterone to my child's elementary school environment, a place where men tend to play supporting roles. When it was my turn to be the surprise "mystery reader," I did a dramatic rendition of "Casey at the Bat," fiercely swinging a Louisville Slugger as I re-created Casey's futile third strike. (My daughter's appraisal: She was a little embarrassed. My reply: Won't be the last time, kid.)

And I derive comfort and happiness from small services rendered, like carrying home a cherished pink umbrella so it’s not lost amid the chaos of the classroom.

Also, there’s a long-term payoff to developing a close, nurturing relationship with your child. Among them: A recent study showed college-age women were less likely to abuse alcohol or drugs if they had involved fathers who set rules and closely monitored their behavior. (The same was true for mothers and sons, suggesting significant influence by the opposite-gender parent.) We fathers might not always rise to the level of Atticus Finch, but we don’t have to sink to the depths of Homer Simpson.