The otherworldly role of the other parent.
Mar 29, 2010, Vol. 15, No. 27 • By MICHAEL M. ROSEN
An Accidental Guide to Fatherhood
Pope John XXIII once said that “it is easier for a father to have children than for children to have a real father.” Since the birth of my fourth child last year I’ve given substantial thought to this, and I’m not sure I entirely agree. If by “have children” he meant bringing them into the world, he’s more or less correct—although, of course, as we fathers are reminded time and again, it’s the mother who “has” children. (Perhaps “sire” is the more apt, if antiquated, verb.) But if “having” children means having them in one’s life, the comparison is murkier: Indeed, some fathers do nothing more than sire children and then vamoose. Others deign to have them in their lives but are too busy with work, or preoccupied by other pursuits, to appreciate the joys and hardships that attend child-raising. And others, the much-ballyhooed stay-at-home dads, consume their fatherly duties with relish, serving as primary caregivers.
But what about the great mushy middle: those fathers who hold down full-time jobs but play an active role in bringing up their kids? This ranges from fathers who take weekends off to those who shoulder equal (or near-equal) responsibility for raising Dick and Jane. I count myself among these “moderates,” striving to get home from work every night in time for dinner, bath, book, and bed—and returning, inevitably, to computer afterward for several hours. I rise early with the children each morning so that my wife, who spent the night nursing the baby, can snatch an extra 90 minutes of sleep. Weekends are sacred family time: (almost) no work during waking hours, no political events, no “guys’ day out.”
Yet for putatively modern dads, delights aside, is it easy to raise children? In comparison to our wives—who manage most every aspect of their childrens’ lives, from doctor’s appointments to summer camp registration to properly fitting sneakers—the answer is yes. If we liken a mother’s toil to years of hard labor in Siberia, father’s work more closely resembles a brief tenure in Bernard Madoff’s current digs. But in the abstract, what does it mean for a working father to bring up his kids in today’s society?
Michael Lewis’s Home Game: An Accidental Guide to Fatherhood is a humorous, engrossing, fresh look at a well-worn subject that weaves together anecdote and analysis by way of crackling dialogue. In many ways, Home Game does for fatherhood what Lewis’s earlier books did for baseball, football, and the Internet. (In particular, I commend the recounting of his three-year-old daughter’s profanity-laced defense of her older sister in a Bermudan resort pool.) Unlike most of his other works, however, Home Game is a highly personal, even poignant, look at fatherhood, in which Lewis exposes his own family life without permanently scarring his three children.
The most thoughtful section is the introduction, in which Lewis analyzes the evolving role of fathers in our time and bemoans the “unsettling absence of universal, or even local, standards of behavior.” Among his neighbors, Lewis is regarded alternately as a Neanderthal or a unique combination of “breadwinner and domestic dervish.” This lack of standards results in part from his residence in Berkeley, California (where I grew up, incidentally), which he nicely skewers for its incorrigibly faddish liberal sentimentality—at least when it comes to childbirth:
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