NRPLUS MEMBER ARTICLE S ixteen. That’s the current number of bookshelves in my family’s home, and each one is packed full of books spanning numerous genres. This is not counting the closet full of my sister’s book collection or my personal stash (40 boxes’ worth) in the storage room. (Clearly, we have a problem.) During my research in June for the monthly Children’s Literature Supplement I write for the Washington Review of Books, I searched all of these shelves, looking for children’s books that featured strong fathers. To my shock, I could find only three (though a fourth and a fifth occurred to me later).

Before anyone starts protesting, let me define my terms. My criterion was simple: The story had to have a biological father who played more than a passing role in the tale. Little Women? The girls’ father appears only in the last few pages. Anne of Green Gables? Matthew is incredibly father-like, but not biologically related. The Willoughbys? Forget it. In the end, my short list contained these four titles/series:

1. Ramona and Her Father, by Beverly Cleary (You could make the case that Mr. Quimby is a strong, present father in all the Ramona books.)
2. The Little House series, by Laura Ingalls Wilder
3. The Swiss Family Robinson, by Johann David Wyss
4. The Good Master, by Kate Seredy
5. The Trumpet of the Swan (Yes, I said this was a list of four, but in writing this piece, this book came to mind.)

I’m sure there are others (and would appreciate suggestions), but do a cursory scan of the children’s literature titles — even the award-winning ones — and you will find a plethora of orphans, single-parent households, or abusive fathers.

What gives?

First, from a storytelling perspective, bad or absent parents make sense. There needs to be some kind of driving action that starts a protagonist on his way, and often this is a loss. James in James and the Giant Peach goes to live with his horrible aunts after his parents are ignominiously crushed by a runaway rhinoceros; the eponymous heroine of Heidi goes to stay with her grandfather after her parents die; Meg’s father in A Wrinkle in Time has literally gone missing in another world. And this is only the tip of the literary iceberg.

We love these adventures because they engage our imagination, teach us resourcefulness, and, if they’re done right, exemplify growth in virtue. Interestingly, though, these adventure tales often involve children in tense or perilous situations that most involved parents would have put a stop to. Consider books such as Hatchet, My Side of the Mountain, Hans Brinker, and Freckles. Each shows a young boy who must, with minimal outside help, make his way in the world and how strong he grows through the process.

Wonderful as these books are, this “fend for yourself” can-do attitude has some drawbacks in the real world. I’m certainly not advocating a helicopter-parent mentality, or ignoring the fact that tragic parental losses do happen. This self-sufficient thread running through much of our children’s literature today, however, cuts against one of the greatest treasures our parents can give us: their time-tested wisdom.

My mom always tells us that we should come to her and Dad with any and all questions instead of trying to figure everything out on our own. Obviously, she wants my siblings and me to use our brains and try to problem-solve, but if you’ve, say, never bought a house before, asking for some help is a wonderful idea. Think of it like a relay race. You don’t restart each time the baton is passed; you pick up where your teammate finished. As Mom always says, “You’ll make plenty of your own mistakes, so why not skip a few of the ones we made by asking for help?” Youth has its charms and advantages, but absolutely nothing is a substitute for time and experience.

“But without a tragedy, we’d be missing these wonderful pieces of literature!” Indeed. Over and over in famous literature, we see how lack of strong fathers allows for events to go awry. Take the aforementioned Hatchet, by Gary Paulsen. If the protagonist’s parents weren’t divorced, he wouldn’t have been on the plane that ended up in the middle of the wilderness. We also can’t forget the dreadful case of Peter Rabbit, whose father ended up in a pie and whose son didn’t learn a lesson from the misfortune. Yes, these are mildly silly or (nearly) unrealistic examples, but in my own life, the craziest events seem to happen when my dad isn’t available. In what has become a favorite family tale, years ago, when he was gone on a business trip, our dog died. My very pregnant mother had to handle the vet visit, despondent children, and burial all on her own.

Perhaps I’m being too general, but this father absence in children’s literature really is a theme worth considering (and an adjacent one to NR’s recent print magazine subject). After all, mothers certainly aren’t missing in literature. We see an abundance of care, love, and nurturing from wise women who give us powerful examples of strength in the face of serious dangers and hardships. All too often, though, if fathers are present in books — be they picture books, YA books, or otherwise — they are portrayed as ridiculous, bumbling fools. Papa Bear in The Berenstain Bears is a prime example. And who could forget the cowardly father in the fairy tale Rumpelstiltskin? Even in the Bible, which contains the greatest example of fatherhood in God, is overflowing with dreadful fathers. Samuel, David, Solomon — each of these men performed mighty deeds and was close to the Lord, but time and time again, we see them failing as leaders in their own families.

There seems to be a kind of feedback loop in which the literature our children consume accustoms them to absent fathers but never gives them the tools to break that cycle in the real world. Good fathers don’t mean perfect fathers. We need to show our boys that not only can they have incredible adventures and hone skills of bravery, they can also be chivalrous, faithful, and present. Our daughters need to see examples of adult men who stay with and respect the people in their lives and uphold the dignity of their children.

So, what is the answer? First, don’t throw out the great and good children’s literature we’ve inherited. The characters, virtues, and cultural knowledge we meet, grasp, and gain are irreplicable. Second, avoid reading books with weak, silly parents. Truly, it’s not hard to spot them. Finally, let’s hold our men to a high standard, expecting mighty deeds and deep love, not letting them or ourselves settle for “good enough.”