Babble

If I had a nickel for every time someone told me how lucky my wife and I are that we "get" to work at home as parents, we wouldn't have to work at all. No, we could just sit around doing blow and paying one of the Bush twins — the undrunk one — to watch our ten-month-old.

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But here's the thing about working at home as a parent: you try it, buster. Seriously. You try focusing on the next sentence when your daughter is sobbing down the hall. You try talking to your editor while the kid rakes your cheek with her (surprisingly sharp) fingernails because you won't let her chew on the phone. You try hitting your deadlines between naptimes.

I'm not suggesting parents who work outside the home have it easy. Battling rush hour, hiring babysitters, pumping breast milk at your desk — all major hassles. But at least you office folk have the consolation of being able to partition your work life from your parenting life. As my pal Jane over My wife and I live in a blurry world, one I suspect is becoming increasingly common.at Baby Squared has confessed, she actually enjoyed returning to work after her maternity leave. In the office, she writes ad copy and helps pay the bills. When she gets home, she moms. There are clear, recognized boundaries.

My wife and I live, by contrast, in a blurry world, one I suspect is becoming increasingly common. The basic equation being: digital technology + rising commuting costs + corporate savings = lots and lots more home offices. Factor in the absence of traditional extended family supports and soaring daycare costs, and you get, well, us.

Each morning, I head upstairs to write, all dozen steps. But it's not like I can't hear the baby down below, making all her burbles of joy, her shrieks of discovery and anguish. She's my kid. I'm curious about what she's up to. I miss her. So I wander downstairs a few times each morning and now that she's a little older, she recognizes the thumping and gets all psyched and crawls to the baby gate and shakes on the bars like the town drunk. This means I have to pick her up. And once I've picked her up, we need to do at least a couple of laps around the living room before I can put her down without her clinging to my chest hair. This is not counting those occasions when I'm lured downstairs by my wife's hysterical laughter, or a loud expletive. But even if I could control my impulse to visit with my daughter (which I can't), there are mornings — such as this very morning — when my wife needs to do an errand, and asks me to look after Josephine. What am I supposed to say to that? "The baby will have to look after herself, hon. I'm hard at work on The Great American Novel."