Father’s Day is here, which means many of us will participate in the annual ritual of pretending we don’t want anything while secretly hoping someone buys us noise cancelling headphones because somebody left the “Jane Remover” on—whatever that is. 

In the days of yore on these fateful Sundays, fathers have received neckties. The next time I plan to wear a necktie will be in a casket. Everyone will say how great I look and opine, “He should’ve worn more ties.” As if that would’ve changed the outcome of my life—I know for a fact it ends the same apart from the quality of the neckwear tying my skull to my vertebrae.

Modern fatherhood has become considerably more complicated. Today’s dads are expected to be providers, caregivers, chauffeurs, tutors, therapists, life coaches and co-managers of a domestic enterprise whose operating budget would challenge a midsized municipality. We are expected to know our children’s emotional states, dietary restrictions, preferred pronouns of various Minecraft characters and the precise location of a stuffed animal last seen sometime during the Obama administration. So, basically what moms have always done.

As a Gen X father, I find this reassuring. Not because I’m particularly good at any of the above but because my generation was raised largely by fathers who communicated affection through practical acts. The ride to practice. The repaired bicycle. The advice delivered while staring resolutely forward through a windshield into the void of middle age.

Many of today’s fathers are attempting something different. We still do the practical duties but we’re also trying to say the quiet parts out loud. We’re trying to tell our kids we love them before they have to deduce it from circumstantial evidence. And if they turn down the damn Jane Remover, they might actually hear it.

Regardless, it’s an improvement. Messier, yes. Definitely more awkward. Certainly more expensive. But an improvement nonetheless.

What I’ve learned about fatherhood—finally, now that I’m facing the near-term prospect of an empty nest—is that children don’t actually require perfection—just presence. They need someone who shows up consistently, apologizes when necessary and remains available for emergencies involving homework or mysterious noises coming from the garage.

Father’s Day become a national holiday thanks to President Richard Nixon, who signed it into law a in April of 1972. A few weeks later, his henchmen bugged the Democratic National Committee headquarters in the Watergate building. By July, I was born. Somehow, that last fact didn’t make the national news but it did usher my own dad into official fatherhood for which I remain grateful—not least of which because I’m here and he’s always been there. Overall, a remarkable run. Hope he likes the tie.