My wife Barbara is a reporter. In the 10 years since she graduated from college, she has worked for four newspapers in four different states. We get around. As generally social creatures, this movement has brought with it a large number of introductions and the like. And as any adult knows, the most common "small talk" conversation at a party begins with the question: "What do you do?"

For a long time, I used my old standby: "I'm on the non-career track." If I actually happened to be interested in speaking to the person who asked the question, I might offer up some little piece of the myriad of things I do for little, if any, pay. I might say "I write novels that don't get published," or "I write about bands that no one wants to hear." In my occasional times of (relatively) full-time employment, I often started off my response with "I whore myself out to a sports Internet company" before going full-bore into my other activities.

For the record, one person (and just the one) appreciated the "whore myself out" comment. She was in a similar situation at the time (working one job while spending most of her energy on lesser-paying pursuits), though she has gone on to get a full-time job that (I think) she likes. Good for her. The sports Internet company that once paid me burnt out its $200 million stake, leaving me laid off and collecting unemployment.

These days, I simply say "I take care of my son Max." This comment generally elicits a bevy of "how nice" and "isn't that nice" sort of comments. It's also a definite conversation stopper.

It isn't that people are shocked by meeting a stay-at-home dad. In my neck of the New South, there are at least 25,000 unemployed tech workers, and most of them are parents. Most of those parents (Moms and Dads) take care of their kids on a full-time basis. Despite what you may have read in Newsweek or seen in the movie Daddy Day Care, not all of us feel emasculated or frustrated, and some of us actually enjoy what we do. Nonetheless, the professional folks I tend to run into at parties are thoroughly confused when they meet an intelligent person who happens to be spending his (or her) days happily wiping butts and playing patty-cake.

There's a good reason for this confusion. In my experience, most people are not cut out for the job of child care. This isn't a male or female thing. It's a human thing. Taking care of a child requires boundless amounts of energy and an endless well of patience. On top of that, you've got to actually enjoy the job or the entire thing will go to hell.

I take care of Max because I always wanted to be a stay-at-home dad. Sure, I often will tell people that as a writer, I can do my work and be at home. But the plain truth is that I don't write nearly as much as I used to because spending my days with Max pretty much drains me of my creativity. I still review some albums (about one-third of the number I used to do) and I still write these columns, but the quantity of my fiction writing has taken a serious hit.

That's okay with me. I've the rest of my life to write stories, and just a few years to witness the plot that is Max. He's not an endless joy; in fact, often he's something of a pain in the ass. When he's unhappy, he whines (loudly), screams and hits me. When he's happy, he seems to spend most of his time plotting new and unusual ways of disobeying me. From what I hear, this is exactly what a soon-to-be 16-month-old should be doing. So I just kinda let things roll and see what happens.

Which is not to say that enduring sustained whining and screaming due to teething (I've learned that parents always call this sort of annoying behavior "teething," which a more comfortable thought than "my child is an obnoxious brat") leaves me feeling relaxed and refreshed at the end of the day. Max doesn't wear me out physically (I'm in pretty decent shape and I've always been blessed with an excess of energy), but I'm wiped mentally by the time Barbara gets home from work in the evening. Whether it's reading the same five books for two or three hours straight or simply trying to figure out what the hell "bobabababograshcnkx" means, Max knows a thousand ways to crash my brain and he's always coming up with more.

When Barbara gets home and tags into the ring, I climb out though the ropes and get to watch what she does with Max. I learn what he likes and doesn't like. The distance-- however slight it may be--is just enough to give me a little perspective. So that when the day arrives when Max lifts up his butt, grabs the poopy diaper that I've just unfastened and proceeds to hurl the contents around the room, I'm able to smile and clean up the mess without blowing a fuse.

For the most part.

That's the joy of being a stay-at-home dad, I guess. You spend your days making sure the kids eat the right things, get enough exercise, take naps when necessary and in all other ways try to ensure a complete and productive childhood. And in return, you get to watch your children grow up.

I'm pretty sure I've got the better deal.

In the last week, the imminent arrival of Max's eyeteeth have led Jon Worley to think some decidedly unpaternal thoughts. He's sure they'll pass soon enough.