Odyssey of a Mr. Mom

I'm a stay-at-home Dad, which, unscrambled, means my wife is smarter than me. She did her homework while I was out chasing the Grateful Dead. We have two wonderful children ages 2 and 5, Natasha and Rory.

My wife marches around in the morning getting ready for work while I hold my coffee and stare up toward the ceiling wondering what I'm doing.

My wife takes the car for work. When she leaves, the kids stand at the door and wave goodbye. By the time they stop waving she's already halfway across town. Then Rory will turn to me and ask, ``What do we do now, Dad?"

I have a small truck, but I can't safely fit them in the front seat. So the truck sits in the driveway like a rusting monument to my working past. And we walk, and we walk. We walk by the mailman who calls me ``Mr. Mom."

Every day we walk up and down Beverly's main street, Cabot Street. You might have seen us out there on your way to work. Have I yelled at you yet for any driving infractions?

I formerly worked as a roofer. If the guys on the roofing crew saw what I was doing now, they'd spit out their coffee.

I do make a little money here and there, but my financial contribution to the mortgage payment is like me throwing a snowball at the Terminator.

When I first started pushing the baby carriage, I only pushed it with one hand, which is actually hard, considering the condition of the sidewalks. But I thought it made me look a bit more manly. I gave up when a woman came out of the bank and laughed at me. She seemed to know what I was up to. I then realized that whether I used one hand or two hands, the result was still the same: I'm a stay-at-home Dad.

Let me describe my daily route. We walk about a half-mile past the second hand furniture stores and City Hall, past the churches and their steeples. Cabot Street is a crazy road. Beside myself, there's little traffic enforcement. In Beverly, stopping at a stop sign could be interpreted as a provocation. So we're careful when we cross the street. I confess there have been a few times when I've yelled at drivers. I'd point at the white stop line that runs across the road and yell like John McEnroe, ``Do you see that? Do you see it?"

``Dad, why are you yelling at that man?" asked Rory.

``He just drove through the stop sign while talking on his cellphone. He has to be more careful. You know Thomas the Train has to be careful, or he'll fall off the track."

This type of scenario played out many times, and then Rory started yelling at cars too.

``Hey, that's not very nice what that car did!" he cried, putting his little hands on his hips.

``Oh, no," I thought to myself. ``He's starting to behave like me." That's not necessarily a good thing; just ask my wife. I've since stopped yelling at the cars, but I will wave and mouth a sarcastic ``Thank You" to the people who don't stop for us at crosswalks. You know who you are.

Our destination is always a coffee shop, the Atomic Café, and from there we go to the Children's Library beneath the main library. When we arrive at the coffee shop, Rory always holds the door while I wheel Natasha in. She is usually holding her thin, yellow blanket up to her nose while furiously sucking on her pacifier. The pacifier is a lifesaver, mainly hers.

Rory always gets a small M&M cookie, and Natasha and I split a chocolate chip. I order a coffee for myself. It's a treat we can't really afford, but I can't afford to give it up. It's quite possible I could go insane. I enjoy it when other mothers are there with their kids. The coffee shop is like our office. The kids get together and keep one another occupied. I can kick back and drink my coffee, maybe read a stray sports page, but soon Rory will ask, ``Dad, when are we going to the library?"

Sean Devlin lives with his family in Beverly. His 2002 novel, ``Above the Gutter," was a finalist in the HarperCollins National Bestseller Contest.