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Three trips to the changing table in the space of an hour convinced me. This was a vastly different experience than the one that I thought I had signed up for. There is something about the makeup of a man that makes him genetically incapable of correctly fastening the tabs on a diaper while simultaneously restraining the vaguely child like octopus gleefully wiggling on the table below.

I'd love to say that being a stay-at-home Dad while my girls were small was a conscious choice, but in fact it was a conspiracy of lay-offs and timing that turned me into the warrior with baby powder as my choice of weapon. I've never resented the choice my wife made to better herself through education; what I did resent was the quiet chuckle that came when she saw that, by the end of a single afternoon, our three and two year old daughters had reduced the house to a state that the President himself would have sent the reserve into.

Needless to say, it was a learning experience. Somehow I was under the impression that girls would be easier to deal with than boys, somehow calmer, or gentler. The truth is, girls scent blood quicker than there counterparts, and jump on it like toddling sharks. In no time at all they found out that Daddy didn't know that Chef Boyardee was not an appropriate breakfast, and that Daddy , having read the nutritional information, deemed chocolate cake (ala Cosby) as a prime source of nourishment. All of their sabotage aside, the girls and I were able to come to arrangement that was agreeable to both parties, and left Dad in possession of some of his sanity, if none of his hair.

As the point and shoot member of the family, we probably never appreciate the true meaning of multi-tasking until we're the ones responsible for all the tasks. Assuming the role of Administrator, Quartermaster, Jailer, and Teacher, as well as Laundry Clerk and Chief Sanitation Engineer has to be done once to be truly understood. Painfully understood. I have never had a greater appreciation for my wife than in the short time she spent leaving me in charge of our demon brood. Now, reader, please do not take this to mean that I have evil children. They are just...misguided. Like Scud missiles.

The single biggest challenge to a stay at home manly toddler wrestler is the Potty. Our girls were extraordinarily quick at picking up on this essential function, mostly due to the hard work of their Mom. Our oldest needed no help from us whatsoever, and probably could have written pint sized dissertation on the subject. Her younger sister, separated by only 20 months, was nearly as good, but to my horror, was so proud of the event that she would scream at the top her lungs "I'm DOOOONE!", regardless of where she was and who was present. So, add Flustered Bathroom Attendant to the list of new and varied jobs to add to my parental resume.

To my credit, or maybe in spite of it, these two bright, beautiful, girls survived their toddler years with Dad,and are now healthy, if possibly therapy bound young women aged 13 and 11. Their youngest sister now three, and again, improbably, the beneficiary of a layoff from work on my part also seems to be thriving, although her Mother and I put in equal time with her, which means that she is for the most part safe. It wasn't and isn't an easy thing to shift to the nurturing role in the lives of my girls, but for anyone out there about to attempt it, don't for a minute beieve the myth of Mr.Mom in apron strings - you'll never have time to get the darned thing tied.

Learn more about this author, Anthony Tompkins.
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