I wish I owned a dB meter.  If I had one I could convey to all my readers the sheer volume of noise that permeates my house.  I would find it very hard to believe if I didn’t live here.  Prior to the arrival of the third child, I just didn’t see it coming.  Timothy (2), the middle child, had remained silent for most of his life due to the fact that his sister, Emily (5), simply left no room for him to get in a word edgewise.  And yet, with all her verbosity, she maintained a comfortable volume level.  Now, however, Timothy has begun to speak as much as his sister.  Zachary (1) has begun to compete for attention through vocalization.  Since Emily still wants to get her two cents in she raises the volume to be heard.  Then, it’s like betting around the poker table, seeing who can raise it to the next level.  Louder and louder and louder they become.

Make no bones about it. My wife and I try to head them off as often as we can.  It’s a true lesson in patience to try to handle their requests one at a time.  Especially, as their requests tend to play off of each other.  They compete for true fairness in all things plus just a slight edge for themselves.  You know, his piece is larger than mine; I want a glass of water, too; why can’t I sit on your lap; why did she get a star at Sunday school?  On and on and on.

Truth be told, much of the volume in the house is Dad’s fault.  I’ll take the blame.  I don’t know where the ability is derived from but my Mom had it and not my Dad.  I have a friend whose wife has it, but he definitely does not.  Clearly it is not necessarily gender associated.  What it is it?  It is the innate ability to tune out voices to which I am not paying attention.  I can be reading, talking to someone, or watching TV and up comes one of the crew.  “Daddy…. daddy…. Daddy!..... DADDY….. DADDY!!!!!” Lori will usually pipe up in a voice I can’t ignore or she will instruct the children that they must touch their father on the arm or the face to get his attention.  This last has led to the annoying habit of my oldest son to have to touch me on the face when he is talking to me.

In the end, we need to be developing a strategy to convey to our children the virtue of silence.  For my kids at least, it is not an inherited trait.

At ages four and nearly-two, my girls have already established a rivalry that will endure for generations.  Historians may one day find it difficult to determine when this rivalry began, and they may be unable to discover who fired the first shot, but there is no doubt someone, somewhere, somewhen will seek to establish the origins of this epic battle.  As one who has lived through these tumultuous times, I’ve taken it upon myself to become the Cicero or Suetonius or Tacitus of our day and chronicle the politicking, scheming, and outright skullduggery of these two embattled Empresses.  This is their story.

Smartypants, once the supreme Equal among a lesser equal (in those fabled days, the lesser equal could not yet crawl or speak), has always taken pleasure in bringing an often mundane world to life.  Aside from the actual human beings and animals living in our house, we had a constant supply of friends tramping through the kingdom.  Many of these friends were inanimate.  Shampoo bottles.  Lotions.  Blocks.  Cups.  Empty milk cartons.  Smartypants, being a kind-hearted ruler, took it upon herself to name them all, establish their family ancestry, and provide voices to those who had none.  It was truly a marvel of imagination.

But her younger sister was eager to challenge Smartypants’ dominance.  As she aged, she looked upon the elder sibling with feigned interest bordering on disdain.  After all, Smiley was old enough to observe—correctly—that shampoo bottles couldn’t speak, nor could they walk as Smartypants imagined.  They were simply possessions, subjects to be governed, useless to a growing child, and certainly of a class far below the aristocratic rank this younger sister had assumed.

Smartypants, sensing her sister’s dislike for her subjects, insisted Smiley stay away from the frolicking fun enjoyed by the Queen and her shampoo bottles.  She closed doors.  She built pillow and couch-cushion enclosures, like imaginary castle walls surrounding her little kingdom.

But Smiley was no dummy, and as she grew older she realized these ramparts and parapets were mere decorations offering only a false sense of security.  And so Smiley laid siege to Smartypants’ kingdom.  She camped outside the walls, begging to be let in, screaming for her sister, oftentimes taunting with the tortuous wail of a toddler.  When the siege failed, she attacked.  She launched her entire body over the cushions.  Sometimes she failed to breach the wall and fell back on her tush.  Other times she landed square in the middle of the Kingdom to pilfer and burn (i.e. to knock down the walls or throw all the inhabitants over them), while Smartypants whined and screamed, demanding she stop, praying to a father figure for assistance that seldom came.

As the sisters aged, shampoo bottles became Barbie Dolls and the rivalry intensified.  Smartypants, having grown older but not necessarily wiser, felt she could control her younger sibling with the simple power of words.  “Please,” she would say, “do not take my Barbies.” And Smiley, ever so devious, would answer, “Okay.” A moment later, Smiley would grab a Barbie Doll and flee, giggling like a madwoman bent on escaping the asylum.  Smartypants immediately demanded a beheading and gave chase to the escaping thief.  She quickly caught up to the smaller sister, and in her haste to take back that which was rightly hers, she’d often knock down the wobbly toddler, who would burst into tears of anger and embarrassment.

And thus our life continues.  Smiley’s raids are frequent and incessant, as are Smartypant’s fits of outrage as she demands (quite violently, from time to time) the return of her kidnapped subjects.

I, being the humble historian, remain uninvolved to the extent that safety permits.  I’ve offered counsel to each young conqueror.  To Smartypants, I’ve talked of sharing, of negotiation, of polite requests for compromise.  And with Smiley I’ve discussed the notion of asking and the topic of listening.  They seem eternally uneager to take my advice, as helpful as it might be to their predicament.  They are, after all, children of privilege bent on ruling the world.

The story, I’m afraid, will continue indefinitely.  They will grow older.  The rivalry shall intensify.  And this casual observer will, from time to time, interject with his advice.  Whether they take it or not may determine my own fate.  For there is only so much bickering a sane man can take before both little Dictatresses get sent to their rooms.

As for who started the rivalry, we can only guess.  I imagine they both played a part.  After all, they are both guilty, and, being two cute little people and my lovely daughters, they are adorably innocent as well.  We’ll leave the ultimate decision to posterity.

Please allow me to introduce myself.

My name is Kemp and I live in a far-south Chicago suburb with my wife of 9 years and our 3-1/2 year old identical twin daughters.

I have been in my current job for 9 months now...but before that I was unemployed for 14 months.

...14 months of idleness.

...14 months of no real income.

But, that also meant 14 months of no meetings and not having to hear a supervisor say inane things like “outside the box” or “access our potential for proactivity”.

It was 14 months of staying home with my daughters. Now I feel I must admit something to all of you reading this post.

It was a tremendous joy to be able to stay home with my twin daughters during that time. It’s not something many fathers get the chance to experience, so I relished the time I had alone with them.

We’ve been called everything from Mr. Mom’s (thank you very much Michael Keaton and Lonestar) to sissies to momma-daddys (my twins’ inventive phrase for me) to...well...women.

I am talking, of course, about stay at-home-dads. For 14 months I was a stay-at-home Dad, or SAHD for all you acronym-ites out there. While the numbers of SAHD’s are small, by all accounts it is becoming a fast-growing segment of the American population.

Of course, when your sample size is smaller than a mouse, it’s easy to enjoy ‘explosive growth’. The next time you read that the number of at-home dads has doubled, remember this probably means it went from 34 to 68 dads nationwide.

Most SAHD’s are seen in a negative light by the outside world. Truth be told, we brought it on ourselves. Consider the acronym used to describe them: SAHD.

Running around telling everyone you are ‘sad’ may explain why some people look down upon us as if we were lepers.

But, we’ve got authority on the world wide web now as there are a few websites devoted to SAHD’s.

One of them is http://www.slowlane.com (Nice. What? Emasculation.com was already taken?)

Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for slowing down in order to smell the flowers but if you start to brand yourself as the little old man in the far right lane barely able to see over the steering wheel and driving 20 MPH in a 65 zone, don’t be surprised when no one shows you any respect and starts to flip you off at random.

Another one I found was http://www.dadstayshome.com which, besides having a better URL, doesn’t talk down to SAHD’s. There’s even a quiz to see if you are ‘man enough’ to be a SAHD (I was, by the way).

Granted, life as a stay-at-home dad was challenging...almost constantly challenging as I received very little praise for my efforts.

Did anyone walk up to me and tell me that I did a great job of getting my children dressed this morning? No, and at times that was the hardest part of the day.

Did I get recognized for my part in the recent family record of 198 consecutive days between visits to the doctor? No.

Did anybody shake my hand and acknowledge the hell that I went through to convince my 3-year-olds to wear something besides their Wiggles or Star Wars t-shirts and shorts on the days where the mercury barely hit above zero? No.

Truth be told, I did receive praise from my wife, my parents and my brother for doing a good job while staying home with the kids. But, having said that, making it sound like I got no praise at all makes for a better read – don’t you think?

Another problem with staying at home? Isolation. Not having anyone around to have adult conversations with did start to take a toll on my sanity.

Now I was lucky for the first part of my idleness, I was finishing up my Master’s degree and used the downtime (what little of it there was) to work on my thesis. The second part of the idleness, I did have a part-time job teaching some business courses at the local college. For the most part though, I was stuck at home.

Sometimes the isolation worried my wife. You know that you have been a stay-at-home father too long when:

- You invite Jehovah’s Witnesses in for a cup of coffee and they ditch you while you’re in the kitchen getting cookies for everyone.
- Your twins are talking in their own ‘twin’ language and you’re understanding it.
- You consider cheating at your favorite computer game as a way of ‘sticking it to the man’.—Take that, Halo!!
- You consider taking a job so beneath you that a gravedigger would have higher social strata than you.
- You look forward to the change of seasons so that you can look at different clothes while folding the laundry.
- You watch the same shows as your kids and you start liking ‘em.
- You begin to sing songs by The Wiggles even when your kids aren’t around.
- You consider switching political parties because you think Republicans care more for the American citizenry and their working future. (Sure, I believe that as much as I believe Cheney and his apology for his hunting ‘accident’.)

This is just a warning to those of you considering staying at home with your children. The loneliness is hell.

But despite all of the trouble and despite all of the loneliness, my children are absolutely hilarious. Sometimes, the humor is in the form of a monologue. Other times, it would be in the form of a face or an exchange between the two.

Before, SAHD’s were the quiet group...not making waves, not challenging the system. Well, it’s time for stay-at-home dads to get some balls and some marketing savvy.

First, lose the ‘stay’ in stay-at-home dad because it brings about images of agoraphobia. Now, I would never make light of anyone’s phobia (what am I saying, of course I would), but come on, it sounds so confining. Plus, the ‘stay’ in stay-at-home dad is an incredible misnomer. I would love to have been able to stay at home just one day, but my twins demanded to play outside in all types of weather; rain, snow, intense heat and bitter cold.

Next, the very phrase ‘at home’ has a stigma, and it focuses on the house, not the children (which is why we are home in the first place). I have an alternate phrase, but it raises the hackles of working parents who hear it.

Full-time father.

Hey, sorry, but in this country, every group gets to name itself.

In short, it’s time we at-home dads go on the offensive. Sure, we may ruffle some feathers, but it sure beats being in the slow lane.

I’m starting to get a little aggravated. Since becoming a father, I have tuned myself in to how fathers are portrayed in the media and what kinds of attitudes we as a society have about Dad. And through and through, I see him being portrayed at best as clueless and out of touch. Often as a childish boob who needs as much as or more parenting from Mom than his own kids. And sometimes as neglectful and abusive.

Now, no way am I going to argue that these types of fathers do not exist. In fact, I know they do. In abundance unfortunately. But, in my honest opinion, I do not think that all three of these categories combined comes even close to the number of active, caring, loving and involved fathers we now have. You want proof of that? Just surf the internet. Heck, spend some time on this blog. There is no shortage of dads so “in” to being fathers they feel the need to share their experiences with the world.

I would like to share with you a few examples of what I have come to call ‘The Minimization of Dad’. Let me start with one that is subtle, but distinct in my view. Last week my wife brought home a CD titled My Daddy is Scratchy by Jamie Braza – who is a father. The three songs on the album that deal specifically with Dad as subject matter are fine examples of how Dad can be minimized.

First, the title track, ‘My Daddy is Scratchy’ is all about how Dad’s stubble scratches. It’s a real cute song. The next daddy song is ‘Stop it Dad You’re Embarrassing Me’. This song tells the tale of a clueless father who sings loudly and poorly much to his poor child’s dismay. OK, I can admit it. I do that. A lot. Fortunately, my kids aren’t old enough to be embarrassed by it yet.

Then, there’s ‘The Daddy Book’. This one bugs me. It’s cute and funny. But it tells of different dads who just don’t have a clue. One dad gives his kids candy for breakfast. Another fails to pack a snack for a play date. The refrain really eats at me; “HE DIDN’T DO HIS HOMEWORK, HE DIDN’T EVEN LOOK. I BET HE NEVER READ THE DADDY BOOK”. I know, it’s just a joke. And by itself, I wouldn’t have thought twice about it.

But taken in combination with the other songs, and especially when you look at the absence of any substantial songs about Dad, it bothers me. Particularly when compared to the main song about Mom, ‘Mommy’s A Dynamo’, about how Mom does everything and you had better take her seriously. And again, don’t get me wrong, Mommy IS a dynamo and she deserves not just one song, but a whole album dedicated to that fact. But it would be nice if ‘The Daddy Book’ mentioned the fact that the dad who gave his kid candy for breakfast sat up with her the week before when she was sick and rocked her to sleep. Or how the dad who forgot to pack a snack also works the night shift so he can be home to hug her when she gets off the school bus. Just part of one song acknowledging the good things Dad does. That’s not being greedy.

Another example of ‘The Minimization of Dad’ is the concept that Dad is emotionally detached from his children. This point of view was espoused by Kevin in this very blog in a post titled ‘No More Mr. Mom’. I encourage you to read it. It is thoughtful and makes some very good points. One point I will whole-heartedly agree with is that dads should not try to be moms. Mothers and fathers have distinct differences in their parenting styles. Both of which have their merits. But Dad should not, in my opinion, allow himself to be emotionally out of tune with his children. And I believe most dads aren’t. Especially Kevin who gives himself far less credit than he deserves in that category. I don’t think a lot of dads “intrude, disrupt, stir up, demand, and insist - to adjust the kids to fit their moods”. I think most dads are aware of the moods their children are in and make conscious decisions whether or not to acknowledge it based on what they feel is important for their child at that moment. If my daughter is in a particularly melancholy mood because she is feeling sorry for herself over something small, I may very well be playful and boisterous in an attempt to cheer her up and get her out of her funk. But if she is hurt or upset because a friend was mean or unpleasant, I will probably be sympathetic and encouraging. I will respond to her emotional needs rather than letting my needs plow her over until she is able to fit my mood. That’s not a Mom or Dad trait. That is a parent trait.

My third and final example is a simple one. But it is the one I run in to most often. When a mommy blogger I know of was interviewed for another publication she was asked “Are men necessary?” She responded by saying “Yes, men are absolutely necessary. After all, we all need a little entertainment.” I know, I know. It was meant to be funny. And it is. Sorta. But I hear these comments all the time. From my mother-in-law to moms at the playground talking about their dumb husbands. And the occasional crack doesn’t bug me. But it is a common attitude in our society that men are only needed for one thing when it comes to parenting – sperm. And that could not be any further from the truth. Study after study shows that fathers are an important part of shaping their children. Keeping fathers a part of parenting gives kids a better chance to grow up happy, healthy and successful in their pursuits. Dads, may in fact, be funny. But they are also important.

Am I looking for a return to the times when wives and children worshiped at the altar of Father Knows Best? No. Ward Cleaver was a hoax. No father could live up to that image just like no mother could live up to the image of June Cleaver. But another Heathcliff Huxtable (The Cosby Show) would be nice. And maybe even the occasional Danny Tanner (Full House). Or how about we just put in a song after ‘Mom is a Dynamo’ and right before ‘My Daddy is Scratchy’ called ‘Father Knows Something’?

Some say that kids aren’t affected by what goes on around them.  I say differently.  My older kids (17 and 18) are still carrying the baggage of an amoral, abusive biological father.  They carry this even though my wife left him when the kids were 2 and 3.

Boo, my 3 year old, sees everything that goes on around her.  Last spring, we lost 2 pets to the busy street near our house within two weeks of each other.  We took that opportunity to explain about death and to emphasize the danger of going in the street (in 2 year old terms).  When the first one happened, she took it well (but seemed perplexed at Daddy’s serious tone).  She understood that the cat was hurt, but didn’t get that she wasn’t coming back.  For days, she would ask about playing with Kit.  Then when the dog died, it was the end of a string of difficult events, and we all just lost it.  She cried along with us at losing Tika, probably more because we were crying, but still some because of the loss.

Then her big sister (aka Sunflower) was in a car accident a few weeks later.  The sitter kept her while we went to the hospital, and we explained it after we brought Sunflower home.  We were afraid that she would think it meant her sister was never coming home, so we chose our words carefully before saying anything.  We were careful to say she was in an accident, rather than saying anything about a car.  We later worked in that she was in a car, but only after Boo was sure Sunflower would be OK.

Frequently now, Boo’s made up stories involve car accidents and death.  My wife was a bit bothered by this, but I told her I think it’s just Boo’s way of coming to terms with the idea of death and the danger of going in the street.  It’s just too bad she had to start coming to terms with death at 3, but fortunate that (other than pets) she still hasn’t lost anyone close to her.  So, in many ways, it’s still just an idea.

My point is that I can’t protect her from everything unpleasant in her life.  Nor should I.  I’ve seen kids who were so protected, and they were unprepared to deal with the realities of life.  The way I see it, my job (in partnership with my wife) is this: to help her learn to cope with the difficult times, to help her gain the skills to learn from them and keep them from being wasted grief.  Who better to help her learn such important things than a daddy?!