 FREEDOM CRY -- CONFESSIONS OF A WORK-AT-HOME DAD
by Jeff Zbar
The fifteenth of January was days away,
and I was near tears.
As a home-based journalist and author,
I've learned to curse quarterly estimated tax payments. No sooner would a check come in
from a client, than I would be stashing cash to pay the taxman.
Four times a year -- sometimes five, if
it's been a good year, and my C.P.A.'s run dry on creative accounting -- I wonder aloud if
it's all worth it. "Self-employment" taxes, no benefits, no camaraderie from my
fellow drones in the corporate hive.
I think about this most in the
mornings, as my work-at-home gig builds its momentum. I rise at 5:30 to the alarm clock's
"Reveille." By that time, my wife's long gone on her way to a twice-a-week,
12-hour shift delivering babies.
I roll out of bed, pull on a pair of
surgical scrubs, and begin my daily commute across the hall to the dedicated office just
off the livingroom. A halogen desk lamp softly illuminates my morning. After an hour or so
of quiet work, Nicole, 6, walks in, eyes squinting and blankie dragging on the floor
behind her. By now, there's juice on my desk, the PC's warmed up and daddy's typing away
to get a head-up on some deadline. Nicole climbs wearily on the couch behind me, and
watches silently as I type some more and shuffle through the mound of papers in search of
a desk underneath.
By seven, 4-year-old Zachary's found
his way beside Nicole. Within minutes, Zoe is rustling her 9-month-old body in a
six-year-old crib. The two older siblings immediately scamper off to play with Zoe. I
finish up some work and head out to shift the household into second gear.
I grab some clothes that their mother,
Robbie, laid out for them (me) the night before. Next, we retreat to the den for some PBS,
waffles, formula and juice. A call to Mom lets her know we're up and rolling.
By eight, Nicole's been picked up by
carpool. By nine, Zachary's on his way to preschool. Then it's just Zoe and me. The day is
now a blur of juggling. With Zoe in the playpen, I send out my first wave of telephone
calls for whatever articles I'm working on. Transfer the little lady to the crib for a
nap. More calls.
By noon, Zoe's hankering for lunch. I
put work on hold, grab the portable phone and take in the paper over lunch. Zoe takes down
her bottle, eats some jarred veggies and shares pinches of my sandwich. By one, she's back
in the playpen, and I'm back at my desk.
By two, Zachary has returned from
school. By 2:30, Nicole ambles in. I give them both juice and a snack, and Zoe gets her
bottle. Hate it as I do, the TV, or "electronic baby-sitter," keeps their
attention until I can break for dinner - or until a young "Mother's Helper"
arrives from down the street. After a few more hours, I break, feed the lot, draw a bath,
and prepare them for bed.
Robbie arrives home from work by eight,
and I yell, "Tag team!" The kids are hers now, and I hustle back to the office
to finish some unfinished business. Sometimes I get to thinking: Is this what it's all
about? Juggling kids and crazed schedules so I can be free to work at home, suffer the
estimated taxes, miss rungs on the corporate ladder? But when my kids come running in,
proudly telling me about some success they've achieved or special event of the day, I then
realize what it's all about. Watching my children grow without day care bleeding me dry,
or baby-sitters not appreciating the giddy baby steps of childhood development. It's about
calling it quits on a Tuesday at 2 p.m., to spend the day at the park or in the pool. It's
about being there. Sure, it's also about staying up until midnight to meet a deadline, or
rising before dawn to get a head start on the day. But by day's end, I know I could find
other work - perhaps as a juggler with Ringling Brothers.
Journalist and author Jeff Zbar has worked from his home office in South Florida since
1989. He recently published Home Office Know-How, a tips book on working from home. Get a
copy at here at Father's World bookstore, or by visiting his
Web site, www.goinsoho.com. His kids would
appreciate it.
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