Holy smokes. First she wants me to drive a van, then this. My manhood is under assault.

For the record, I want to state emphatically to the court of my peers that I am not the Team Mom.

The title of record is Team Manager, but I need to add that Mrs. G. says — no, insists — that the job description encompasses more than that.

The male of the new millennium.

The age of the involved father.

The kind of dad who learned to paint toenails before he learned to coach soccer.

And if it wasn't hard enough to correctly separate each one's underwear when folding clothes, I'm also supposed to be a role model for the men my daughters might marry.

"Not only are men now required to mow the yard, pick up the dead rats and slay the bugs, but participate in their kid's life," Mrs. G. said. "Men can't sit back and not know who their kids are."

We're off the hook when it comes to remembering the Social Security number of our spouse. But heaven help you, brother, if you can't tell the difference between a sweeper and a slacker.

My father was involved in our family in ways that seemed normal at the time, from driving us to T-ball practice to doing the dishes at night to helping me type term papers. Maybe he was ahead of his time.

But I can only guess the emotional depth of his involvement because we didn't have any touch-feely conversations.

Surely he was interested. It seems like too much work to do simply out of parenting guilt.

A savvy, single mother I know likened the modern father to surfing. She once told me there was nothing "more manly and attractive and admirable than the guy who took off on that big, fat, impossible-looking, pitching wave called marriage and fatherhood."

Being a surfer, I was feeling pretty good about the manly part, but I couldn't shake the image of an exposed coral reef out there.

Then Mrs. G. dialed 911 for me: She didn't think any of this made me sexy.

"It makes you useful," she said.

(Yeah, it gave me chills, too.)

I am useful beyond words. I wash dishes every night. I once lugged guitar amps for an all-girl garage band. I carve a path through the shrieks and deal with dead rats on a regular basis.

But the truth of it is, that's the modern dad.

He does whatever he can to keep up or, as in my case, eats the dust of speeding daughters.

Even if it means he's the Team Mom. Or the Team Manager. Or the Team's Hopelessly Optimistic Grumpy Old Man.

Just one request, though.

Please don't think of me as a role model with a snack list.

Reach Mike Gordon at mgordon@honoluluadvertiser.com.