What they're saying about "Max's Daddy"

"I didn't raise any son of mine to mother a son."
- the author's mother

"It's just not the same with this guy around."
- a neighborhood mother

"I think he's strange. My wife calls him Herman Bombeck."
- the author's landlord

"I have no son."
- the author's father

"I'm glad he wrote this book. Anybody who serves hot dogs for breakfast ought to be writing . . . not serving meals."
- the author's mother-in-law

Preface

You Really Gotta Read This

About ten months ago, I had the chance to become a househusband. My employer was in the midst of crippling financial difficulties, while my wife was anxious to renew her career. Also, since the birth of our son, Max, two years earlier, I had repeatedly claimed that, given the opportunity, I'd like to be at home with him. The opportunity was now there. I had to put up or shut up.

I put-ed.

It soon became obvious that I was a stranger in the wilderness. I found out that little boys like Max love to scream words like "bald," "ugly," and "fat." And that big, ugly, and bald men who only frown at the mothers of little boys, put up their dukes for Max's Daddy.

I discovered that concepts like fate and the Gods make sense only to those who work simple ten-hour days. Max, instead, controls my life. I now pray to him. I pray that he'll eat what took me five hours to cook. That he'll bless me with four hours of uninterrupted sleep. And that he'll forgive me for partaking of the devil's work --- horrible things like reading the sports page or having a peaceful cup of coffee.

I listened as Max refused to talk to my in-laws about his new toys, our trip to the zoo, or nursery school. Instead, he talked about Daddy drinking beer, and Daddy smoking cigars when Mommy's not home, and Daddy swearing, and Daddy's favorite neighbor --- “the good looker" --- whom Daddy likes to wink at.

I watched a mother hit her daughter because the little girl had hit another little girl. That confused me. And I watched another mother punch her son because the boy did something that might have caused him to hurt himself. And that confused me even more. I watched those horrible soap operas that once were beneath me, because they were a hell of a lot better than facing up to dirty dishes, dusty floors, and another meal Max wouldn't like, anyway.

I found out that Max was born with a full under- standing of traffic laws --- "STOP, DADDY! RED LIGHT!" and "TURN HERE!" and "TOO FAST, DADDY!" and "NO, DADDY, YELLOW MEANS SLOW!" and "MOMMY SAYS HAVE TO PUT MONEY IN THAT METER!"

And so, at age three, he's a far more bothersome backseat driver than my mother is at age 73.

I took Max to nursery school and the teacher refused to treat me like any other mother. Instead she treated me like any other child. She even took away my snack. As punishment.

I bought a potty and watched Max use it as a hat, a fire truck, and a cereal bowl. Just as I watched my great-grandmother's treasured Persian rug used as a potty.

I showed Max how to brush his teeth. And he showed me how a toothbrush sticks out of his belly button --- "all day long, Daddy!"

Basically, I didn't know what to expect when I dove into the dirty dishwasher. I had no idea at all what the hell the life of a househusband would be like. Why would I? How could I? (In high school, my wife had three years of home economics and now she does marketing. I had three years of woodworking and now spend my days with plastic toys.)

Let's face it. Just as America once failed to prepare its women to emerge as career-oriented professionals, it's now failing to prepare its men for what is currently the country's hottest new profession --- househusbandry.

Author's note: "Max's Daddy" was originally written in 1986. Pre-Internet, pre-mobile, and prior to many social shifts. I wouldn't type some of these words today (2016, a third of a century later), but when read in the context of the time... .

So I've had to learn a lot over the last ten months.

I learned how to get a three-year-old's foot out of the exhaust pipe of an '85 Chrysler.

I learned that a clove of garlic is not that big thing I got at the grocery store, but instead one of those little pieces of the big thing.

I learned that the way to get rid of the sour milk odor in the car is to get rid of the car.

I learned the extreme effectiveness of this handy little response: "Ask your mother when she gets home from work."

And the American banking industry's going to have to learn how to get Grandma's letter out of its ATMs.

And meanwhile, I invented the Peanut Butter Omelet.

So over the past ten months, I've found my way through a domestic wilderness dominated by, and structured to meet the demands of, the opposite sex. Though I've certainly not done it with grace or patience. No, not at all. It was more often humor that dragged me through. Humor helped more than beer. Even more than The Wheel of Fortune." Humor cushioned the confusion. It tempered the maddening frustration. It soothed my bruised ego.

It's with similar intent that I now share the experiences of my daily survival (and the vital lessons I've learned along the way). For I also discovered that mothers, fathers, retired grandfathers, disapproving grandmothers, brothers, nosey landlords, disgusted nursery school teachers, and curious neighbors are extremely interested in what's Max's Daddy's is really up to.

Introduction

It's been with me at nine different addresses in four cities ("It's time to jump into the rat race and make my fortune") and three rural villages ("It's time to escape from the rat race"). Not everybody had one. A Jimi Hendrix poster. And now it's smeared with dried peanut butter, Silly Putty, and M&M's. So is the keyboard of this typewriter. As is the interior of my car . . . the only new one I've ever owned. A friend from college phoned last week. He said, "How's the Hendrix poster?" I said, "It smells." He didn't understand. Nobody does anymore.

My three-piece suits are now in the basement, in storage. The bedroom closet that once was mine now stores the overflow of toys. The closet smells vaguely of diaper. There's probably one in there somewhere. I'll try to find it tomorrow. Or maybe next week. My videotape collection features Charlie Brown, Curious George, and Mickey Mouse. Even at this moment I'm listening to "Snoopy Comes Home" for the fourth time today. (FYI, in the end he makes it home and everybody's happy, even Charlie.)

I'm hoping for a successful day. Maybe he won't dump milk on the terrified dog. Maybe there'll be a new kid at the playground, one that'll put up with mine. And maybe I'll find a retailer who won't treat me like a perverted child abductor. These are now the sorts of things by which I measure daily success.

Three years ago I measured success by the smoothness with which I negotiated a contract, or the efficiency with which I met outrageous profit goals, or the speed with which I increased my employer's return- on-investment ratio.

Meanwhile, Max was born. My wife, Sally, and I determined that she should resign her position and stay home (our accountant claimed that my "market value" was greater than Sally's). I also didn't want my boy in child care. Not my boy. And hell, Sally could handle it. What could be so tough about staying at home with the kid?

Two years later, my employer entered bankruptcy proceedings.

So Jimi's dead, I'm off the market, Sally's back to work, and Max just taped the dog's tail to the refrigerator. And there's that smell again. The one of burning peanut butter cookies in the oven.

Damn, gotta go.

Learning the Territory

Curious yet universal, not-to-be-neglected predicaments that the househusband can expect to face sooner or later. Probably sooner.

• Lessons Learned in the First 48 Hours
• Pushing the Kid into the Swimming Pool of Culture
• From the Mouths of Babes
• Ask Your Mother When She Gets Home

Lessons Learned in the First 48 Hours

Get your child into a nursery school as soon as possible. That way, when he starts cussing, you have other people to blame it on.

Do not permit anyone --- family or strangers --- to engage your child in a discussion of what he might want to do when he grows up. Inevitably, he'll say, "I want to grow up and do nothing, like Daddy."

As the kid's first visit to the dentist approaches, do not play dentist with him . . . no matter how clever the idea seems. Don't show the kid how the dentist will shine a light in his mouth, or stick a mirror in there, or check his teeth with something long and pointy, or clean them with something like an electric toothbrush.

And by all means, don't show the kid how the dentist will suck spit out of the mouth with something like a miniature vacuum cleaner. Because if you do that, the kid'll end up trying to play dentist with the dog.

And that simply doesn't work. Not at all. Especially when the kid turns on the Electrolux and sticks it in the dog's mouth.

Do not permit your child to be present when good old buddies from college arrive for a visit. If you do, you risk, from there on and forevermore, the child greeting everybody as "Hey, old scumbag, how the hell ya doin'?"

Because they're so damn rare, quickly suck up and treasure every kind word or compliment that comes your way. Like the other day, when the guy at the grocery store said, “Your kid sure does a nice job of busting ketchup bottles." I beamed with pride.

Do not drink spirits in the presence of your child. Period! It's a fact that everything simply appears to be bigger than reality to a child, including the volume of beer the old man drinks. Have one beer while watching a ball game on TV with the kid, and without doubt the in-laws will drop in for the weekend.

Your father-in-law will say, "What d'ya do today, grandson?" The kid'll say, "Baseball on TV and Daddy drink five beers," and he'll hold up ten fingers. (Note here that one beer smells the same on your breath as 20 beers.) That's when the mother-in-law cleverly kisses you on the cheek and says, "Pheeew, certainly smells like ten."

And the father-in-law says, "So my daughter's still working ten-hour days while you lounge about here in your personal tavern, eh?" And there you go, 48 seconds into the weekend and it's destroyed beyond recovery, completely shot to hell, because of one lousy beer during the fifth and sixth inning. It's just not worth it, that drinking in front of your kid stuff.

If your wife plays some special game with the kid, make sure she tells you about it.

Like "rumble" --- that's when the wife, holding the kid, stands on a chair, yells rumble" and throws him on the sofa. Or "mobile barn" --- that's any structure made of Legos or blocks that's got wheels on the bottom of it.

The point is that if the wife doesn't keep you informed about stuff like that, she'll soon go off to some business convention on the other side of the country, several time zones away, where she's absolutely impossible to contact. The kid'll say "want to play rumble" or "want Daddy make mobile barn." You'll say, "What?" He'll say, "Like Mommy do."

You'll not know what the heck to do. He'll become incredibly frustrated and start screaming hysterically, and that'll continue throughout the weeklong convention.

Quit using drugs. As Robin Williams said, There's no reason to do drugs once you have a kid. You're always awake and paranoid anyway."

Pushing the Kid into the Swimming Pool of Culture

On Sunday we went to a wedding. While the parents took a break to drink, the children danced and the old ladies yelled into one another's hearing aids, "Aren't they cute!" I guess they were cute . . . all the little boys in their suits, and all the little girls in their dresses. Every one of them danced. Except Max. He tackled and wrestled.

Sally was pretty embarrassed. She said, "That's it! All you ever do is take him to football games and wrestling matches. No more! I'm registering him for music school."

"Where and when?" I asked.

The school up the street, starting Tuesday."

"Tuesday!? But Hulk Hogan's in town. I promised Max. We've got ringside --- "

"TUESDAY!"

So early today, Tuesday, Max and I went to music school. The teacher gathered the kids in a circle about her. The mothers and I stood along one wall of the rehearsal room. The mothers talked about when they first went to music school, and how it didn't seem that long ago at all. I talked about missing Hulk Hogan and asked if any of them had watched last night's Packers-Bears game.

I soon stood by myself and all the mothers stood along the opposite wall.

The teacher started the class by singing a song she wrote as a child. It sounded like she wasn't a very talented child.

Then she asked the children if any of them knew a song. "The Alphabet Song," said one little girl. The teachers asked her to sing it. She did. Then all the other children joined in. Except Max.

The teacher then asked if anybody else knew a song. One little boy knew "Itsy Bitsy Spider." He sang it by himself and then all the other children joined in. Except Max.

This went on until only Max had not volunteered a tune. The teacher said, "Max, don't you know any songs?"

"I do," he said.

"Will you sing one for us?"

And Max sang the theme song from "Gilligan's Island." None of the other kids knew it. I looked at the teacher. She glared in return.

"Might you know another song, Max?" the teacher asked.

"I do."

"Good, let's try another song. Go ahead, Max." And he sang the theme song from "The Beverly Hillbillies." And again, none of the other kids could join in. I looked at the mothers. And received, in return, a unanimous glare.

"OK, Max," the teacher said, "let's try again. Do you ever go to church?"

"When Mommy's Mommy and Daddy visit. Daddy said it's easier just to go than fight it."

This time I looked out the window.

The teacher said, "Might you know any Sunday school songs?"

Max said, "I don't know."

"Do you know a song called 'Jesus Loves Me, This I Know, for the Bible Tells Me So' ?"

Max said, "I don't know."

"Well, let's do this, Max. I'll start singing the song and if you recognize it, if you know the words, you start singing with me. OK, Max? Do you understand?"

Max said, "I do."

The teacher started singing, "Jesus --- "

"MOVE IT! GET THE HELL OUT OF THE WAY!"

Absolute silence. Stunned silence.

Until the teacher said," What did you say, young man!?"

"I do know that song," Max smiled, "Daddy sing that in car."

The teacher pointed to her office and I followed. She slammed the door behind us and sighed, just like my high school principal used to sigh, 20 years ago.

She said, "Sounds like you watch a lot of lousy TV."

"I guess so."

"Now listen," she said, your wife said that Max watches only 'Sesame Street' and 'Mr. Rogers.'"

"Sort of."

"What's that mean?"

"Well, Max hates 'Sesame Street' and 'Mr. Rogers.' Yet his mother continues to insist that he watch them, if he's going to watch TV at all. So I, well, uh --- "

"SO?!"

"So I told Max that 'The Beverly Hillbillies' was 'Sesame Street' and that 'Gilligan's Island' was 'Mr. Rogers.' That way, when his mother comes home at night and asks him what he did today, he's sure to say that he watched 'Sesame Street' and 'Mr. Rogers.'"

The teacher said, "That's sick."

I shrugged my shoulders. Just like I did 20 years ago in high school at the principal’s office.

The teacher wrote a note, put it in an envelope, and sealed it. "Here," she said, "take this home to your wife. You've been caught, you know."

I shrugged my shoulders again, thought of high school, and hoped that Sally would be half as forgiving as my parents used to be.

Then I rushed home. It was time for another of Max's TV favorites --- "The Wonderful World of Disney." Which the rest of America, including Sally, knows as "I Dream of Jeannie."

From the Mouths of Babes

I took Max to a story hour at the library last week. Story hour is when some sweet librarian sort reads to six kids, five of whom sit mesmerized, upon their mommies' laps. The sixth, Max, instead likes to stand, un-mesmerized, upon Daddy's stomach.

Last week, the librarian read a book about an old bird who gets sick and dies. Max liked the word "sick."

About halfway through the book, Max started yelling "SICK!" whenever the librarian said "bird." "SICK BIRD!" And by the end of the book, he yelled SICK" when she said "nest," "egg," and even "the ending." "SICK NEST!" "SICK EGG!" "SICK END!"

But the big news about last week's story hour was that, for the first time, another man was there. After story hour I walked out to the parking lot with him, as Max screamed, "SICK CAR!" "SICK ROCK!" "SICK DADDY!"

"Nice looking girl you got there," I said.

"She's a boy."

"Oh, sorry." Gulp. "Nice looking son you got there."

"The son's a nephew."

Gulp.

"A son would be complicated," he smiled.

I looked at him, curiously.

"I'm gay," he said.

I looked at him like I didn't know what to say. I had messed up girl vs. boy and son vs. nephew. Surely I'd mess this up.

"It's funny," he said, "my uncle babysat for me. He was straight and I turned out to be gay. So my sister figures she'll have me baby-sit Mike here, and he'll be sure to turn out straight."

Again, I looked at him like I didn't know what to say. Was he goofing with me?

"Hey," he said, laughing, "take it easy. Loosen up. I'll see you next week, same time, same place. OK?" "Sure." We introduced ourselves and traded phone numbers in case we'd want to get Max and Mike together for a play date.

Max and I got into the car. "SICK STEERING WHEEL! "SICK HEAD REST! "SICK DADDY!"

"Cool it, Max."

"What dat man say, Daddy?"

"He said he was gay," I mumbled.

"GAY STEERING WHEEL! GAY HEAD REST! GAY DADDY!"

"That's enough, Max."

"Where go now, Daddy?"

"To the grocery store."

So there we were, in line at the cash register. Max points at the unfriendly looking woman behind the register and yells, "SICK LADY! SICK LADY!"

She glared at me.

"Cool it, Max."

A man with a stubby beard and booze breath was in line behind us. Max pointed to him and said, "DADDY, DADDY, LOOK! SICK MAN! SICK MAN!"

I didn't dare look.

I got out of line and dragged Max back to a deserted area near the mustards and relishes. "Cool it, Max. Don't say the word 'sick'. Ok?"

He nodded "yes."

I chose the checkout line farthest from the one we had ducked out of. A handsome, well-groomed young man was working the register. Max screamed, "GAY MAN! GAY MAN!"

I went to another checkout line. Two men in black leather jackets, toothless and tattooed, stood in front of us. Max pointed to one and screamed, "GAY MAN!" Then he pointed to the other and screamed, "SICK MAN!"

Back to the mustards and relishes. I dumped my groceries. Max and I ducked out through the loading dock.

On the way out he called the butchers "SICK!" and the truck drivers "GAY!"

The next day Max and I drove out of state. In search of a new grocery store.

Ask Your Mother When She Gets Home

Some things are better left to mothers. Not so long ago those things were stuff like baking, cleaning, sewing, laundry, and making Halloween costumes. That's not necessarily so nowadays, especially as regards Sally and me. What's NOW best left to Max's mother are questions I can't answer.

Like yesterday, when Max and I went to a shopping mall that has an extremely ugly sculpture hanging from the center of its ceiling. Max said, What dat, Daddy?"

"A sculpture."

"What scup-tur?"

"A type of art."

"What art?"

Hmmm. "Ask your mother when she gets home from work."

Or the other day, when Champ (our dog) was humping an arm on the sofa and Max said, "What Champ doin' Daddy?"

"Ask your mother when she gets home from work."

Or when we walked past a lovely home with a swimming pool and Max said, "Max wants a house with swimmin' pool."

"No way, Max."

"Why?"

"Because we don't have enough money."

"Why?"

"Ask your mother when she gets home from work."

And there was, "Daddy, those lines that airplanes make in the sky --- "

"The jets, you mean. Not airplanes. Jets." " Yeah, why not all jets make those lines?"

I was stumped. Worse yet, I'd never thought about that myself.

I said, "Ask your mother when she gets home from work."

There was also last Tuesday, as Max and I walked to the grocery store. He said, "Daddy?"

"Yeah, Max?"

"Mommy told me that that bellybutton --- "

"Yours?"

"Yeah, Max's. Mommy said there was string there when Max showed up."

"Yeah, something like string."

"And the other end of that string was tied to Mommy."

"Yeah something like that."

"And Mommy said everybody got bellybutton because all people had that string tied to a mommy."

"Right, something like that."

"And Grandma said that some man," Max paused, I forget his name."

"What about him?"

"He was first person."

"Adam? A lot of people like Grandma think that Adam was the first person."

"Yeah, dat man."

"What about him?"

"He have bellybutton?"

Geez, I thought, that's a good one. So I said, "Why don't you --- "

"Ask Mommy when she gets home from work," Max grinned, "Right, Daddy?"

"Right, buddy," I patted his head, "thata boy."

And then today, while I was watching the Pitt- Syracuse football game, Max asked, "Why Daddy drink beer when football on that TV?"

"I don't know. I just feel like it, I guess."

"Why Daddy not feel like it when Peter Jennings on that TV?"

I didn't know.

"Or Andrew Griffith and dat funny lookin Barney?" I had never really thought about that. I simply drink beer whenever I watch football.

Or when 'The Munsters' or that 'Addams Family' on that TV?"

"I really don't know, Max. Why don't you --- "

"Ask Mommy when she gets home," he grinned," right, Daddy?"

"WRONG! Don't you dare ask Mommy about Daddy drinking beer and watching TV."

Max frowned, "What then, Daddy, what?"

"Why don't you" I paused, and he listened carefully, "go over to that cooler and get me another beer?"

"OK, Daddy," he smiled and ran for the cooler.

"And Max!"

He stopped and turned, "What, Daddy, what?"

"About you getting me those beers, why don't you --- "

"NOT tell Mommy when she gets home," he grinned, "Right, Daddy?"

"Right, buddy."

Normalcy Revisited

The enlightening experience of periodically re-entering the real world after months of living exclusively with a toddler.

• Kissing the Social Graces Good-bye
• The Company Picnic

Kissing the Social Graces Good-bye

Back in the days before I entered the world of househusbandry, I was called on from time to time to entertain, or at least maintain a decent conversation. I was in book publishing. And that caused me to entertain, tour with, breakfast with, or drink with people like Charles Kuralt, Anne Morrow Lindbergh, Mary McCarthy, Herman Wouk, Christie Brinkley, Henry Kissinger, Norman Mailer, lesser know Pulitzer Prize winners, and a variety of others. The point is, I could handle myself.

But not anymore. For being with a two-year-old all day screws up one's social graces, especially one's conversational skills.

Like an evening two weeks ago --- after I had spent much of the day explaining to Max what I used to do and what a book publishing company was --- when I attended a reception at my wife's company. One of the company's vice presidents introduced herself, then said, "I understand you stay at home with Max?"

"That's right."

"And before that?"

"I worked for a book publisher."

"Really," she said, I've always been curious about that industry. Tell me, exactly, what's publishing really all about?"

I didn't give my response much thought and instead just sort of launched in as if I was still talking with Max, "Well, you see, there are people who own a business, who are in charge of the business just like Mr. Townsend at the grocery store, and Mr. Haduch at the gas station. But these people --- the ones I worked for --- have a business that makes and sells books. Which is how they make money so they can buy food and diapers, and go on vacation, and buy a car. People pay them --- give them money --- for their books. Because people like books. Some books teach you things. Some books are fun. Some books only have pictures. And I helped people who make books sell those books, get them to the people who want to pay for them. Now, I did that by --- "

"Excuse me," she said.

"Sure."

And she walked away from me.

Then last week, friends of ours, a couple, visited on the same day I had been trying to explain to Max "why" he is. Why Mommy and Daddy have Max. Just like Grandpa and Grandma had Mommy. All of which, by the way, is not an easy concept to explain to a two- year-old. Anyway, the couple mentioned that they were thinking about having children.

They asked why we had Max. Starving for conversation, I jumped in and responded before Sally had a chance.

I said, "Well, you see, Sally and I love each other very much. Even in bed. And what Mommy and Daddy do is --- "

"Jess!" It was Sally. "Before you go any further, how about a round of drinks for all of us?"

"But we all have drinks. Why --- "

"Please!" Her teeth gritted.

"OK. Sure."

And by the time I returned with fresh drinks, the conversation had turned to taxes, the deficit, and buying power.

And then there was last night, when one of Sally's old boyfriends was in town. I'd never met him before, he stopped by for drinks. That old lover stuff can always be a little awkward so he started off with something safe and innocent: "So, Jess, Sally tells me the two of you just bought a new car. How's it run?"

"Well, it's like this, Bob," I said, First, it has wheels. Because wheels roll. If it didn't have wheels, it would just sit there, like the refrigerator. And we put gas in it. It needs gas. Just like people and dogs have to eat food. And it has an engine. Now the engine is a very special machine. It takes the gas and burns it. Which makes things in the engine called pistons move. Well, those pistons end up making the wheels move. Which make the car move! But now you have to make sure that the car moves where you want it to or, oh boy, it might hit the garage or another car, which would be bad. So there's something called a steering wheel. That moves the wheels so they go where you want the car to go. But what if you want to stop the car? Right? Well, you do that with things on the car called brakes. They stop the wheels from moving. And - "

"Jess!" It was Sally, back from the kitchen.

"What?"

"How about a round of drinks for all of us?"

"But we all have drinks. Why --- "

"Please!" Her teeth gritted.

"OK. Sure."

And for the rest of the evening, Sally and Bob talked of old friends and good old times that sounded a lot better than Sally's and my current times.

As Bob left --- and as I started to clean and pick up about the apartment --- I heard him say to Sally, "Yeah, sure, he's nice enough. But it's also awful clear to me why you're working and he's not."

I guess I deserved that. I understand why he said it. But damn it, if he could just have seen me two years ago, when I actually charmed Norman Mailer.

The Company Picnic

My wife's company had their annual picnic this past weekend. The company supplied the booze, and each wife brought something to eat. I, a company "wife," brought beer nuts.

The picnic was held at a home with a private beach. As tends to happen, the general conversation soon turned to company business. So Max and I wandered off to the beach to join the other wives and kids.

"Hi," I said.

The wives looked back toward the house, to see if more men were on their way. Nope. The president's good-looking wife tied the top of her string two-piece and sat up. The other wives retreated in subtle ways, crossing their legs, pulling a towel up, closing one more blouse button, or turning their attention to their children --- that involuntary response of motherhood whenever danger approaches.

I waited, smiling, looking my best to be harmless and friendly. I patted Max on the head. Finally, one of the wives said, "Hi."

I said, "I'm Jess."

Nothing.

"I don't work for the company; my wife does."

They said, "I see" and "oh" and "that explains it."

I said, "I used to work."

They said, "I see" and "oh" and "that explains it."

"For a book publisher," I said.

They said, "really" and "no kidding" and "that must have been interesting," and one said, "So does my brother Bert."

"Really?"

"Yeah, Bert Dampson. Used to work for Houghton Mifflin. Now he's with Simon & Schuster." I knew the guy. I was the one who fired him from Houghton Mifflin. He was a real loser. I said, "Bert Dampson, eh? Yeah, I've heard of him. Good guy, they say. A real pro."

Bert's sister smiled. I was making progress.

She said, "So it seems like you've been around. Do you think this company will make it?” She nodded back to the house where our spousal employees were, then continued, “You know, being a start-up, high-tech operation and all. It seems so risky."

"I hope so," I said." The employees all have ownership in it. If it goes, we'll all have rich husbands. Or wife," I smiled.

"That's just what I was saying. I'm Ann. My husband's head of manufacturing, Joe Sweppo."

Joe had put the moves on Sally at a convention last year.

"Joe Sweppo," I said. "Yeah, my wife, Sally, talks about him a lot. A real mover, it seems."

Joe's wife smiled with pride.

"So you're Sally's husband? I'm Julie Abrams. Fred Abrams' wife. Sally works for Fred."

"Right. Nice to meet you." The president had taken Sally to lunch last week to tell her that he was letting Fred go, and that Sally would move up to his position.

"Yeah, good old Fred. Sally thinks he's really going to go places." Fred's wife blushed and I felt like a creep. I had to change the subject, And by the way," I said, my congratulations to all of you --- the food's just great."

They said, "thanks" and "isn't it, though?"

"What did Sally bring?" one asked.

She didn't. "That's my job."

They giggled and one asked, "So what did you bring?"

I said, the beer nuts."

They laughed and one said, "We were just saying how cute the beer nuts were."

That soon led to a discussion of the stuffed mushrooms, the potato salad, the sushi, and the soybean burgers. I was promised all the recipes. Sally would be bringing them home from work for me. I offered my peanut butter omelet recipe, but nobody went for it.

My wife's company is a young one and most of the wives are healthy-looking sorts. We played touch football. The accountant's wife kept calling me "Joe Namath." And just before things broke up, the president's wife built a sand castle with secret rooms, and hinted to me that naughty things would happen in them.

The tide started to come in, so the wives and I retreated back to the beach house. Everybody there was a bit drunk and in the midst of a heated argument as to what to do about Midwest sales.

The wives started to moan and groan about how late it was getting, about the chores yet to be done at home, and how the kids needed their sleep. And I was also pretty good at being snitty, considering that it was only my first company picnic as a spouse. ("You know, dear," I said to Sally, "it wouldn't hurt our dog to be walked.")

The wives and I worked our way to the cars, pushing our spouses along. The wives again promised me their recipes, and told me how much their husbands liked Sally. And the president's wife quietly promised that if the company made it, if it went public in a really big way, she'd build a real castle with real secret rooms.

On that note, I got in the driver's side of our car, just as all the other sober wives did. A few of my new friends rolled down their windows to throw me kisses, or yell "nice to meet you" or "loved those beer nuts" or "thanks for the help with the Frisbee."

And the accountant's chubby wife yelled, "See you later, Joe."

An hour later, just before reaching home, my wife opened her eyes, turned to me, and said with a slur, "Joe?"

Tricks of the Trade

As there's no reason to reinvent fire, the author offers general advice on overcoming several major challenges to be faced by the novice househusband.

• Putting the Kid's Safety First
• Quickie Tricks of the Trade
• Free Advice as Regards the Visual Media

Putting the Kid's Safety First

You've just got to have sympathy for kids. Things must appear terribly confusing until they develop that regretful and disillusioning adolescent cynicism of sorts.

Like Max'll say, "Let's take Champ (our dog) to the playground."

"Can't, Max. Not allowed. That's what the big sign at the entrance says: NO DOGS ALLOWED."

So we go to the playground. And three or four people have brought their dogs. "Why dogs here, Daddy?"

And I don't know what to say, especially with the pit bull's owner standing right next to me.

Or Max'll say, "What that red light, Daddy?"

"That's a stoplight. When you're driving, you have to stop the car when you see one of those."

I stop at a red light and Max says, "Why that car beside us and that car there not stop?"

I don't know what to say.

"And why that car behind blowing horn?"

Or Max'll spit and I'll tell him not to do that. And then he asks, "Why all those people spit, Daddy?" (It's a fact that until you tell your kid not to spit, you're not aware of how very many people spit.) And again, I don't know what to say.

We'll walk the dog and I'll pick up the dog's poop. Max asks, Why do that, Daddy?"

"Because it's the right and proper thing to do. And it's also something called 'the law'."

I then step in some other dog's poop, and swear.

Max asks, "Why that poop not picked up --- and that poop there and that poop over there and that poop back there. Lots of poop, Daddy. And why can Daddy say that word and Max not allowed?"

What's a father to say?

But then, at last, a situation arose for which I had an answer. You see, a buzzer goes off on our car whenever the driver exceeds 55 miles per hour. That damn buzzer buzzes all the way to most everywhere we go --- to the grocery store, to the playground, over the bridge and to Grandma's house.

Max finally said one day, "Mommy told me people not supposed to drive fast to make that buzzer noise. Why Daddy do that?"

“Because, good buddy, it's dangerous out here on the road. Lots of nuts driving around, not obeying the law and being reckless. So I drive as fast as I can so I can get off the road as soon as possible. That way, there's less chance of Max getting hurt."

Max thought about that, then said, "That's a good one, Daddy."

Quickie Tricks of the Trade

Do not permit your child to talk with his grandparents on the phone. That just runs up the phone bill and the folks will leave the bulk of their estate to your successful brother's cuter children, anyway.

If your situation is like mine --- the wife kept her maiden name --- agree to let the child also have her last name. That buys you a lot of points and corners the wife into a guilt-ridden, defensive position. Also, it figures to be handy when the child's name starts showing up in the local newspaper's police log.

Ignore the advice of pediatricians and nursery school teachers who think that parents ought to talk to their three-year-old about death. Otherwise, you'll talk to the kid about death and end by saying something like, "So you see, some people get old, or sick, and they die."

Or you go to the hospital to visit Great Uncle George who is dying (although everybody in the family's agreed to pretend he isn't), and the kid says, "Why here Uncle George?

And Great Uncle George says," Because I'm a little sick and --- "

"THEN YOU DIE JUST LIKE DADDY SAID," screams the kid.

So just skip the death stuff and let your child figure it out on his own, just like I did. By burning bags filled with Japanese Beetles, or going over to the school parking lot after a heavy rain to stomp on worms.

If your wife shows the kid how to latch the door on the stall of a public toilet, make damn sure she tells you about that. Otherwise, you'll assume the kid can't do it, turn your back, and he'll do it. Which leads to all sorts of problems. Especially in public restrooms you'd rather not be in, anyway --- like the one in New York City's Penn Station. Or one in which nobody else is in the mood for some jerk kid screwing around --- like in Giants Stadium at halftime of a Giants-Bears game. With the Giants down by four touchdowns.

If there's something about the house that's got you baffled --- like you need to fix it or put it together or take it apart but you can't --- put the kid to work. For example, a director's chair. One that you can't get the canvas seats on or off of. Put the chair, canvas, and kid in an empty room. Tell the kid, "DON'T TOUCH THAT CHAIR OR THIS CANVAS!" Then leave the room and close the door behind you. Fold some laundry or dust some picture frames. Return to room. The chair's canvas will be on, or off, whatever you wanted. A child in the age range of two to four years is recommended.

And one more thing. It's probably best to half- heartedly reprimand the kid for disobeying you. Otherwise it might come back to haunt you. Like when, several months later, you say, "DON'T PUT THAT SAND IN THE GAS TANK!"

Do not waste your time and money trying different jellies and jams. What a kid really means by a peanut- butter-and-jelly sandwich is a peanut-butter-and-grape- jelly sandwich.

Trying to keep the kid quiet through a long car trip, plane ride, or funeral service? Just slip him a box of Band-Aids. He'll spend hours opening them, placing them, and re-arranging them. So what if you arrive at the in- laws' looking like he went through a plate glass door? It's better than the loud, exhausting alternative.

As a househusband, you're going to be broke. All the time. It can be tough on the ego.

So do this: Whenever you go to the ATM to withdraw a measly $10, check out all the discarded ATM receipts. If you spot one that shows a checking account balance of, let's say, $60,000, grab it!

Then, when you're next surrounded by unwelcoming mothers --- like at the playground or nursery school --- just casually drop the slip and depart. Those mothers will be far more welcoming tomorrow.

Free Advice as Regards the Visual Media

Do not permit your child to watch "The Keystone Kops." He'll bug you for months wanting you to drive like that.

Do not permit your child to watch professional wrestling. The first few seconds you're not watching, he'll try that stuff with the dog."

Do not permit your child to watch the film" Mary Poppins." He'll bug you for weeks for a babysitter who flies.

Do not permit your child to watch "The Dick Van Dyke Show." He'll mention that he wants a mother who looks like Mary Tyler Moore. You'll grin devilishly and mutter something like, "That's certainly OK by me."

And then when the wife gets home from a tough day at the office, the first thing the kid'll say is, "Daddy wants new wife, one like Rob's." There's just no graceful way out of that, the truth being the least graceful and most suspicious of all.

Do not permit you child to watch "Leave It to Beaver." He'll bug you for years for a new Daddy, one just like Ward.

However, do expose your child to violent TV shows full of shooting and domestic fights as soon as possible. That way he won't be confused and shocked by what goes on in the subway and at family reunions.

Grudge Work

The daily chores to be faced, from housecleaning, to preparing for the in-laws' visit, to the child's first day of nursery school.

• Sending the Boy Off to School
• The Good Housekeeping Stamp of Disapproval
• Beat the DustBuster
• As Time Drags By

Sending the Boy Off to School

The evening before Max's first day of nursery school, my wife said, "I sure hope all goes well. You know, my mother had to stand outside the classroom door my whole first week of kindergarten."

I was shocked. "Really? Well, we'll have none of that with Max."

" I'm just warning you," she said, "don't be surprised if --- "

"Listen, I'm taking him. He'll be fine. I can handle him."

We arrived at the school at 9 a.m., as did the other children and mothers. The mothers talked with one another. I smiled and nodded to them. And even offered my peanut butter omelet recipe. But they ignored me.

Eventually the mothers began to leave. So I also got ready to take off. "See you later, Max. Have a good time."

"WWAAAHHHHHHH!" And the tears poured off his face.

" I gotta go, Max. It'll be fine." He had me by the ankles, "Max, let go. I'll be back. Don't worry." The teacher ran up to me. "Do you think he's ready for school?"

"Sure, why not?" I said.

"Well, it doesn't look it to me. Such a performance! I think you better stick around for a while."

"But I --- "

"Listen, is this your only child?"

I nodded. "Yes."

"Well, I've taught hundreds of students his age. I've dealt with all kinds. And I'm saying you better stick around."

I did. No other mother had to.

At 9:30 we all got into a circle to sing. We started off with "Old MacDonald's Farm." Each child gave the sound of an animal, sang the first chorus, and then everybody else joined in.

A girl did "coo, coo," and Old Macdonald had a dove. A boy did "blam, blam," and Old MacDonald had a double-barreled shotgun. Max next did "moo, moo." Then the teacher looked at me and nodded, as if it was my turn.

I said, "You've got to be kidding."

She said, "Jess, you're next in the circle. Come on!"

One little girl said, "Yeah, come on, Jess."

And another said, "Hurry up, mister."

So I did "quack, quack," and sang the first round by myself while thinking about my college roommate, who's now the wealthy owner of a multimillion dollar duck-processing plant out on Long Island.

At 10:30 we had a snack. I had forgotten how good Graham Crackers were. I was furious when the teacher made me say "please" when I asked for a second. And twice as furious when she then said, "No, you've had enough."

At 11:00 we did a project. The teacher spread peanut butter over a piece of bread for each of us. Then by sticking miniature marshmallows, grated carrots, nuts, and raisins on the peanut butter, we created a face. When we were all done, the teacher had us all walk around the table and pick out the one that was best. Some girl won.

I didn't get one vote, except for my own. Max even voted for the girl's. I said, "Hold it. Hers doesn't even look like a face. Look at mine," I held it up, "It's got great eyebrows, and notice how I highlighted the cheekbones with carrots, and --- "

"Give us a break, mister."

"That's right, Johnny. And Jess," the teacher turned to me, "if you don't settle down, I won't allow you to eat yours."

"EAT IT! EAT MY FACE?" I had plans to put it in my den, under one of those little recessed lights, making it the featured item it deserved to be, You've got to be kidding! Eat it?!"

At 11:30 we all went out to the parking lot. Each child was given a Hot Wheels, and sprinklers were turned on so that the kids could ride through the spray.

The teacher said, "I don't think we have a Hot Wheels big enough for you."

I said, "That's OK, my car's parked over there. I'll just use that."

She didn't like that. "No wonder your son's having problems!"

At noon we had lunch. Max ate everything I had packed for him. So I was starving. I had just about talked Courtney into giving me her last English Tea Biscuit, when Thor grabbed it.

I raised my fist to hit him, but the teacher stopped me "Now, now, young man! I don't want to have to report you to your wife." I looked at her carefully, and determined that she was absolutely serious.

Finally, at one p.m., the other parents arrived to pick up their kids. I acted cool, like I just happened to have arrived first to pick up my kid.

As Max and I left, I heard one of the little girls telling her mother all about school, "... and one of the kids has a beard, and he's real big. I don't like him. He makes faces at the teacher."

The Good Housekeeping Stamp of Disapproval

Yesterday my parents visited for the first time since my wife started to bring home the bacon and I started to burn it.

During and after their earlier visits, my wife complained to me --- as pleasantly as one can complain --- about my parents' constant questioning of her mothering and housekeeping abilities. I'd give Sally an insincere pat on the shoulder and say, "Now, come on. I think you're overreacting, being a little too sensitive for your own good. My parents aren't all that bad. Really."

So this time my wife went to work and I crawled out of bed at about 9:30 a.m. My parents had been up for three hours. The fold-out sofa in the bedroom was folded back in. And the coffee was made. I said, "Good morning."

My mother said, "When I was raising you, I was always up by six."

And my Dad said, "Sally said she'd pick up a bagel and a cup of coffee at work. You know, don't you, that your mother always got up and made breakfast for me?"

I said, "So, what do you folks want to do today?"

My mother said, "I think you better get that boy of yours potty-trained."

My Dad said, "Do you realize how much money you spend on diapers?"

I mumbled, "When the time's right" and" of course I do." Then I made muffins for breakfast. Max loved them. My mother said, "A little bit of fruit for breakfast wouldn't hurt that boy, you know."

And my Dad said, "If there's anything I've learned, it's that a little bit of meat --- say some bacon or ham --- gets a two-year-old's day started right."

I said, "Let's go to the zoo. Max loves the zoo."

My mother said, "All that animal dirt, all those animal diseases, and flies, and bugs and fleas, ugh!"

My Dad said, "Did you ever think son, that you may be alive today because your mother and I never let you near dirty and diseased animals from Siberia?"

"No, not recently," I said.

"What we should be doing today," my Mother said, "is playing in a backyard."

"But this apartment doesn't have a yard, Mom."

"That's what we don't understand, son," my Dad said. "Why don't the two of you buy a nice house?"

"Because of money, or lack of it, that's why."

"Well, why can't our daughter-in-law get a raise?"

"She's only been back to work for a couple of weeks. Geez!"

"There's that tone of voice, Jess. Your son'll pick up on that."

"Goddamn it! What do you folks want to do today?"

"Not swear around our grandson, for one thing," my mother huffed. "You know, don't you, that I never once --- not once! --- swore in front of you kids?"

"Neither of us did, son," my Dad said.

So I called the travel agent and found out that my parents could save $285 if they took a flight that afternoon.

When my wife got home, she was a bit surprised to see that my parents were gone. "What happened?"

I told her --- as pleasantly as I could --- about her in-laws' constant questioning of my abilities. My wife told me that I was over-reacting, being a little too sensitive for my own good. She said, "Your parents aren't all that bad. Really."

I lost my temper. I screamed, "That's easy for you to say. After all, you just run around in fancy clothes, eating at expensive restaurants and enjoying your damn two Bloody Mary lunches."

So Sally slept on the sofa last night. Then today, she sent me a dozen roses. Which means I'd better get her something romantic. Maybe a gift certificate to Burger King. Or tickets to next week's Red Sox - Yankees series.

Beat the DustBuster

I'm hooked. On our DustBuster.

It's intended to be used, I suppose, for cars or on spots about the house that are too big for a regular vacuum, and for isolated spills --- such as Rice Krispies or soap flakes thrown at the dog.

And that's exactly what I used the DustBuster for when I first started cleaning up after Max's throwing fits. Like when he dumped out the oregano. Although, I shouldn't have used the DustBuster on that. Because then, for the next few months, wherever I used the DustBuster, the palace stunk like oregano. For days. Worse yet, I certainly shouldn't have then used it on the car, because the strong oregano odor made my wife sneeze. About every ten minutes or so. Which wrecked the hell out of our vacation drive from Boston to San Francisco.

Anyway, several days ago, Max was playing "sodding 'n seeding." Sodding is dumping out the dirt from our house plants. And seeding is finding the birdseed I thought I hid, and dumping that out, too.

Out came the DustBuster. And up came the dirt and seed. So satisfying. Then I noticed the sofa. It looked a bit dusty. So I DustBusted that, too. Then I remembered that the sheets were still on the sofa's pull-out bed. The sheets from when my parents visited, several months ago. The in-laws were due in a week. So I pulled out the bed and DustBusted the sheets.

Which is when I noticed the curtains. If you clean those curtains in the washer, they've got to be ironed. The hell with that. I vacuumed the curtains as the DustBuster began to die, its battery begging for a recharge.

There was power enough for one more thing. I rushed to the bathroom and did the bathtub.

Then two days ago, when I was DustBusting the floor around Max's chair, I noticed the floor over by the stove looked a little messy. So I DustBusted there. I could see --- as I hadn't before --- how dusty the floor in front of the refrigerator was. So I DustBusted all around the refrigerator. Which is right next to the back door. The floor there --- where we walk in from the playground and construction sites (Max loves to visit construction sites) --- is always pretty messy. So I DustBusted that, too. I then opened the back door. And good God, the steps were absolutely filthy. I had about four of the steps vacuumed, when the DustBuster started whining, dying, its battery again begging for a recharge.

Today, with the DustBuster fully charged and my plan of attack carefully mapped out, I headed for the street at the end of the driveway. I DustBusted not only the driveway, but also the rain gutters on the garage.

I figured not a bad day's worth of DustBusting, and brewed a well-deserved mug of coffee. Five sips into that and Sally unexpectedly arrived home from work. It wasn't even noon yet.

"Good God, what's up? I asked.

"Listen," she said, "three different neighbors phoned me at work. They said you've been out in the driveway with the DustBuster again. They're worried for you."

I didn't say anything.

"So were you," she asked, "out vacuuming the driveway? Again!?"

"Well, yeah. But damn it, somebody's got to do it.

"Honey, I'm worried. Here," she handed me an airline ticket, "I'm taking the rest of the week off to take care of Max." She paused to kiss me on the cheek, "and you can enjoy a well-deserved visit with Brad (an old friend of mine).”

"Really?"

"Yeah, I think this house stuff's getting to you."

"Well," I smiled, “let me call him."

I purposely used the phone upstairs --- so Sally couldn't hear me. I phoned Brad, asked him a couple of specific questions, confirmed a few things, and the visit was on!

You see, he has a DustBuster, it's charged, and his driveway's filthy.

As Time Drags By

In the good old days when I worked, I made an extensive list of things to do each morning. Such lists included at least 25, and as much as 50 items. And I made it a practice never to call it a day until each item was completed.

I carried that system into my househusband world. Where the system immediately collapsed. But habits die a slow death. So I worked on the list system. I adjusted it. I polished it up a bit. And I determined, at last, that a househusband's list should consist of approximately four items. Maybe aiming for six on the most ambitious of days.

For example, here's my list from last Tuesday:

• shower
• walk the dog
• order two pizzas
  (lunch and supper)
• check the air in
  the tires

My wife doesn't understand this (you see, she was taking care of Max when he was a babbling, sleeping baby, and not the questioning, talkative, screaming, and totally energized and destructive force field he is now). So I kept a log for her, just like I used to in my earlier advertising days. Here goes:

5:40 AM - Max screams for me. And Sally wants to know why I have to groan when I get out of bed. She huffs and rolls over. I go to Max's room. He wants to know why he's not wet the bed. I tell him because you're a good boy and your bladder's not ready to pee. I go back to bed.

5:50 AM - Max screams for me. I get out of bed. Sally makes a face when I unconsciously groan.

Max wants to know what a bladder is. I tell him it's where the body keeps all the stuff you drink until your body no longer wants it. I go back to bed.

Mortality

A look at a subject the author ponders too often. It's also at the end of the book, where it belongs.

• Max's Daddy
• The Never-Ending Search for a Healthy Corpse
• And Then There Was One Less Script to Film

Max's Daddy

So I lost my job and my confidence is bruised. A former colleague suggested I should no longer be allowed to carry my Gold Card. And now I've even been dropped from junk mailing lists.

I've handled it all pretty well --- the twitching and stuttering is limited to Mondays, when everybody else goes to work, and Fridays, when everybody who works goes to Vermont or the Islands for the weekend. But now I'm facing a crisis that may be beyond my knack for suppression. You see, I'm losing my identity. For I'm now nothing more than "Max's Daddy." Or a derivative thereof.

I went to a reception at my wife's company last week. She introduced me to her boss: "This is my husband, Jess Brallier."

"Oh, right, Max's father. Nice to meet you."

The lady in the apartment downstairs had me parked in last Friday. So I phoned her.

"Hi, this is Jess. Your car --- "

"Who?"

"Jess Brallier. I was hoping --- "

"I'm sorry, who?"

"Jess Brallier. I live upstairs, I --- "

"Oh, Max's father."

An old girlfriend of mine lives nearby. She and Sally have become the best of friends. That's cool. I figure it takes one to know one. Anyway, I phoned her the other day.

"Hi, Toots (that's what I called her when we were a thing), I was --- "

"Who is this?"

"Jess."

"Who?"

"Jess! As in Kong (that's what she called me when we were a thing). And like in Sally. And like in Max. And --- "

"Oh, Max's Daddy! And how is Max?"

We visited my parents last month. I overhead a neighbor talking with my Mother.

The neighbor said, "So how's Jess?"

"You mean Max's Daddy? He's fine."

I phoned Max's nursery school teacher this morning to tell her that Max would be late on Thursday.

"Ms. Fowler, this is Jess Brallier. I ---

"Pardon? Who?

Enough. I felt the last remnants of my former identify slipping away. For good. Forever. The fight was lost. The hell with it. I said, "This is Max's father."

"Ahh, and how's Max?"

So I went to the cemetery. I go there in times of depression and confusion. It reminds me that there's the slightest possibility that I could be worse off. I found myself thinking about reincarnation.

If that concept's a reality, then a quick review of gravestones leads to the obvious assumption that I'm nothing more than the reincarnation of an early 20th century wife.

For example:

And the wee little stone next to Samuel's:

Or my favorite:

So I've been working on the inscription for our stones.

Maybe something like:

OK, it needs some more work (Sally doesn't find "corpse" to be as clever as I do). But hey, on this subject, why rush?

The Never-Ending Search for a Healthy Corpse

I read the following in Sunday's newspaper:

Now this looked like good news to me --- something I'm always looking for and not finding much of --- because it seems that I do a hell of a lot of stair- climbing as a househusband. And usually with Max in my arms. So yesterday I kept a log of sorts.

And increase by a final appropriate denominator to account for the evening hours, when Max is again awake.

DAILY GRAND TOTAL: 2,896

Seven days of the daily grand total creates a weekly total of 20,272. Which is 15,272 more steps than the doctors said I needed in order to live longer anyway. I punch a couple more numbers into the calculator. Damn! I'm going to live to age 137! I sit, stunned, in contemplation.

Two hours later, Sally comes home. She asks how my stair-climbing study went. Did I do the log? I throw it at her. She reads it over, kisses me and says why don't you get yourself a beer, it'll make you feel better. I begin to cry. The beer's in the old refrigerator. The one we keep in the basement.

And Then There Was One Less Script to Film

Three years ago, when we first found that Sally was pregnant, I wanted the child to be a boy. Yes, I admit it (even if I didn't back then).

Worse yet, I wanted a boy for all those terribly un-liberated and primitive reasons. Life would be like a series of Hallmark cards, all misty and romanticized. The boy and I would go to baseball games, just like my Dad and I did. We'd play basketball, and jealous fathers of little girls would watch Max and I laugh and sweat together.

We'd talk about pretty high school cheerleaders and I'd lie, saying that the prettiest cheerleader in my high school was crazy for me. He'd have his first beer with me, maybe over a pizza when Sally was out of town on business. And I'd very much adore whomever he marries . . . my daughter-in-law and I would become great buddies, probably in a teasing way.

There was also a vision inspired not by greeting cards, but by Hollywood. You've seen the films. The ones with the intense scenes in which the boy finally beats the old man. Sometimes it's basketball . . . a tough, physical one-on-one game to 21. Or a foot race across a windswept field . . . surely in slow motion. Or maybe the kid strikes out the old man swinging . . . three fast balls, swoosh, swoosh, and SWOOOOSH!

For over three years, my imagination's been writing that scene for Max and me:

Max is a lanky adolescent --- somewhere between boy and man. His beard's just developing --- in patches. He's a little bit taller than me; a quarter of an inch ought to do it. His girlfriend's the cutest and perkiest sweetheart in town, and she's watching us.

And strangely enough, although 15 years older, I look far more handsome and healthy than I do now. (Imagination is a wonderful thing.)

I've been thinking that it'll be a basketball scene: Out in the driveway. With the basketball, now worn smooth, that I bought Max for his first birthday. A game to 21 --- "But you've got to win by two." He wins 25 to 23. Then, in celebration, I sneak him a drink.

But I've not been able to write the feelings. I can see the scene. I can hear it. But I can't write What my heart and mind will be up to.

Will it be pride or pain? Or a passing of the torch? Maybe it'll be fearful recognition of my mortality? Or will it be an incredibly intense sense of comradery? Will my eyes mist? Will Max realize the importance, the intense emotional impact of that moment when he beats me?

It's been fun over these three years, for my imagination to be writing that scene. It's been a handy task to have around. You know, to busy myself while stuck in traffic jams and long lines at the bank.

Or it was until yesterday, when at age three years and one month, Max beat his old man. We were playing Nerf-Basketball. More specifically, we were playing "around the clock." The rim hangs from the top drawer of my desk and the four spots around the clock to shoot from are: 1) the rocking chair, 2) the couch, 3) the hallway door, and 4) the TV. The first person to make each of these shots wins. I made the rocking chair, couch, and hallway door shots, then missed from the TV. Then Max swished from all four spots.

There was little sound except Max screaming, "Max wanta do that again, Daddy. AGAIN, DADDY!" I told him to leave me alone. There was no sweat. And it wasn't the basketball I bought for Max on his first birthday It was just a stupid Nerf-Ball thing that Sally picked up at some yard sale.

I wasn't handsome or healthy looking. Not at all. Although yesterday I was taller than Max. He had no patchy beard. There was nothing at all lanky about him. He was just a chunky-looking three-year-old. We couldn't even share a beer. (No one was watching. Not even a pretty girlfriend. And nobody kissed me, not even Sally when she came home two hours later. I felt no comradery. And certainly no pride.)

There was just disappointment and a sense of deja vu. Like I once thought that by now I'd be important in a corporate way, and now I'm just an unimportant housekeeper. Just like I once thought that my life would include an intense, extremely important, very physical, son vs. father scene; and now it turned out to be a stupid Nerf-Basketball game on an otherwise unmemorable Tuesday afternoon in 1986.

And on top of all that, another dilemma surfaced: What the hell is my imagination going to do now when I'm stuck in traffic jams and bank lines?

I don't know. Maybe Max'll be the world's greatest basketball player. (That's not bad.) He certainly looked it yesterday. (That's worth building on..)

He'll be the NBA's Most Valuable Player 17 years in a row. (Yeah, that's good.) He'll have married the first two-time consecutive winner of the Miss America contest. (That a boy, imagination!)

And at halftime of the final playoff game, as Max once again receives the MVP trophy, he calls to the center of Madison Square Garden, "The man to whom I owe everything, the greatest guy in the world...." I start to work my way out onto the floor, The best father that ever was..." the spotlight picks me up, I look far more handsome and healthy then I do now, "The man who taught me the half-court jump shot, the Brallier skyhook, the perfect layup, my dad!" The fans scream wildly, the applause is overwhelming, and Max's wife, runs up and hugs me.

Yeah, I like that. It's a keeper.

A Final Note

Why I like being at home with Max, Like I am, Rather than at the Office, Like I Used to Be

I like being at home with Max rather than at the office because now my life is void of meetings and committees. I don't have to check with a secretary to see if I can now go to the grocery store. Nor do I have to schedule a meeting of the Shredded Wheat Committee four weeks from now to determine whether the Shredded Wheat I need now shall be the regular Shredded Wheat or the Spoon-Size Shredded Wheat. Instead, I just go to the store and buy whatever the hell I want. And not worry about covering my ass for having done so.

And I don't have to wear a coat and tie. Or a lab coat. Or lead boots. Or uniforms or protective clothing of almost any sort. Just an apron every so often.

Also, Max is nice to be with. He's good, pleasant, and entertaining company. He's sweet. He likes me. He loves me. He never hesitates to hug or kiss me. And he's funny. We laugh a lot.

That's not at all like at the office. Not everybody's nice. In fact, nice people are very rare, certainly far rarer than one would think after all these years of civilization. Sure, some people at the office were funny, but many didn't like me and none loved me. Although, I once worked with my wife (that's how we met) and she loved me. But Max is funnier than Sally.

Max makes me a better person. I never knew what a bum I was, how little of my potential I was fulfilling, until I watched myself with Max, and measured myself against him. Max is kind and honest. He works hard to learn. He's inquisitive. His temper flares, but only for good reason.

I, on the other hand, yell too easily. I'm also selfish. And lazy. I shy away from what I've not experienced before, the unknown. I don't read enough. And after ten years of covering my ass in organizations, I've lost my curiosity.

So after nearly a year with Max, I find myself getting better as I work to live up to his standards.

And as I write this, Max is already three years old. That's another good reason for being at home with Max. All my years go faster now that I'm older.

But these last three have gone by the fastest of all. I'm smart enough to know that the next three years will go even faster. And by then Max will be in school on a full-time basis. And soon thereafter, he'll not even want to be at home. Life's like that.

So what's a three- or five- or ten-year interruption of my career? It wasn't such a hot one anyway. It wasn't going to make the world much better. If at all.

But if Max turns out to be a decent person --- and I'll probably be dead before that final tally's in --- then maybe I'll have made the world a bit better.

I think about that. And end up feeling far better --- as regards my worth and the value of my influence --- about my days with Max than I ever did about my days at the office.

Max's nature, instead, is to like and love, not dislike and hate.

He doesn't brag. He plays no sleazy interpersonal games. With him, honesty is not a strategic option. It just is. He's not yet learned to put up his guard, to doubt, or to suspect the worst. He doesn't know that his house isn't as nice as most everybody else's in town. He doesn't worry about money. He doesn't know that my staying at home is contributing to his questionable, at best, financial security. He's not been taught a religion, and then instructed that that religion's right and all others are wrong, and that's worth killing people over. He doesn't know that other people take nice vacations. That they go to new and wonderfully different places to see, meet, and know other peoples. He plays no self-serving games.

Politics is a word he doesn't know. And for now --- thankfully, I suppose --- he doesn't know that so very many people are worse off than he is. That some, born on the same day as he, have never seen or heard. Or maybe they've been beaten. And burned. Or spit upon. And that some of them never even made it to a third birthday.

Starving to a horrible death instead, while the restaurant next door chains shut its garbage bin to keep away the street people. So because of that ignorance, Max still feels good about life. And that's refreshing. He doesn't know that not everybody is excited to get up in the morning. And he doesn't feel guilty about not doing enough to change a world that kicks so many in their butts.

So that's the best of the life I now live. Because I really can't stand the asses at the office. I can't stand the injustice of employers. The lying. The elite with their gall to lie, even when they know that all those about them know that they're lying. The very acceptance that it's OK to lie. That lying is simply another strategy. And I can't stand the bullshit. Or the sexual games, the dishonesty of all that.

I know this wonderful life of mine's going to end. Max'll start lying to me. Some day, for the first time, he'll be purposely unkind to a classmate (there'll be no record of it, the world won't tremble, the sky won't darken). And he'll soon learn that we don't live as well as others.

And he'll learn that many don't live well at all. Then someday, he'll start preparing for his career, for the never-ending and heartless drive to the corner office of the executive suite in the penthouse. And to a better address. And worst of all, by then, I will have had to have an office to go back to.

Phew, gotta go. It's time for a Max hug.

Postscript

Twenty years later. Whatever happened to Max and Max's Daddy?

Several years after I wrote Max's Daddy, a daughter joined us to make us a family of four. Sally chose to stay at home, and I dragged my butt back to the office.

It's good. I love my work. Back then I must have been bitter about something because there sure aren't any jerks in my current work situation. (Or am I now the office jerk? That's a troubling concept.)

Max is now a college graduate, living and working in New York City. He's kind, funny, smart, thoughtful, helpful, considerate, and loving. He's especially good to his sister. What more could a househusband ask for?

(And another thing, now we can go out and have a drink together, and that's sorta cool.)

Listen, if you can ever pull off this househusband thing, please take a shot at it. You'll gain a special appreciation --- that most guys never can --- for your mother's life and wife's life.

And I don't mean that you should just shift the craziness of the office to the home. Don't become a professional Pop Warner coach or a dictatorial PTO president. Just hang out with the kid. Join his life; don't force him to join yours. Don't harass him into premature adulthood. Allow the days to evolve, to sort of roam wherever they might. Do cheap stuff. Playgrounds, small airports, construction sites, creeks, Legos, community theater, ski lifts in the summer, beaches in the winter, cook together, make up recipes, visit, talk, and listen. They can take away your job, destroy your 401K, wreck your credit, make fun of you, and even your health can go to hell. But nobody can take away a day freely shared with a three-year-old.

That's enough. Just one last secret of the trade: A peanut butter omelet is absolutely as awful as it sounds.

Jess M. Brallier
Reading, Massachusetts
December, 2005

About the Author

Postscript (written by the real Max!)

Like my dad said, "Twenty years later."

For starters, I don't call him Daddy anymore. It's Dad, Pop, or my old man.

Surprisingly, I turned out halfway decent.

I didn't end up hyper-masculine. I'm not a professional wrestler, and I've never ridden a bull. Cars are cool, but I don't know how to fix them. Beef jerky's awesome, but I have little to no interest in hunting.

My dad ran track. He was fast. I was not, and still am not. Having a stay-at-home dad doesn't provide for some sort of osmosis of innate male skills.

I learned certain things at a different pace than my friends did. For example, the two Darrens on Bewitched -- I understood that whole concept when I was four. Way ahead of the curve on that one.

However, I was the last kid on the block to know it wasn't okay to walk around with your hand down your pants.

There are a few other things my old man forgets to mention. Such as, I had cavities galore.

I don't remember much from when I was three, so I can only really judge this whole thing based on how I turned out.

Our family is doing well. I have a good job. My little sister's the best. My dad and I are close.

Bottom line: it turned out great for me.

Oh yeah, peanut butter omelets are still delicious.

Max C. Brallier
New York City
January 2007