What have I got to complain about? So I’m no longer employed as a reporter, a position I worked for years to attain. So I’ve given up a weekly byline in a competitive publishing market to play house with my son. Is that all bad? It’s July, the temperature is eighty degrees with enough breeze to jostle the wind chimes hanging from the back of my house, and I’m sitting on the patio, drinking a glass of ice-cold lemonade and watching my sixteen-month-old son, Seth, chase a plastic ball around the yard.
I guess it’s not so bad. Seth is beginning to talk, which provides a little entertainment, and he’s developing a pretty good cut at the ball – inspiring dreams of his future glory on the ball field. Only his occasional whine or urgent tug on my sleeve reminds me of my former editors.
It’s my first week of being a stay-at-home dad, and I’m slowly adjusting to the role of househusband – so far, I think I can handle it. I gladly respond to Seth’s requests because I know the piece of cheese I get for him is going to be good enough and the glass of water will not be dropped back in my lap with demands to add more quotes. Seth knows what he wants when he sends me on assignment, and for at least another six months, until he hits the terrible twos, I expect that he will be satisfied enough with the results to run with them.
I’ll admit that I’ve got my fears about leaving my job. I worry that being out of print will be a threat to my writing career, that my skills will atrophy, that I’ll miss adult companionship. But when I recall sixty-hour workweeks (for minimal pay), I quickly justify taking a break. Besides, I plan on working freelance, actually writing what I want to. And with the local newspaper at my feet and CNN just a channel-scan away, I won’t lose touch with events outside my backyard. For the first time in years, I don’t hear a phone ringing. Yes, my old life is beginning to melt away in the afternoon sun.
Suddenly, Seth is bored with smacking the ball around. He comes and hangs on my knee and whines “unnhh.” I guess that means it’s time to go to the park.
We jump in the car for our first real trip away from home as Mister Mom and Master Son. A few blocks away, we find Commons Park, not far from the local high school. Within the park is a metal forest of slides and swings and crawling apparati, all suspiciously empty at two-thirty on a Tuesday afternoon. I suddenly feel like I’m playing hookey.
Next Page
