Just call me "Dad"

The other day, I was speaking with an acquaintance of mine over the phone and he asked me how my life as a "househusband" was going. He didn't say this with any ill will or malice; he just really wanted to know how I was enjoying staying at home with my three-month-old son.

To my ears, however, it was as if he had just asked me how my new skirt fit or how I enjoyed the pedicure. I imagined him laughing obnoxiously and making some obscene gestures on the other end of the line. I wanted to get in the car, drive to his office, and sock him in the mouth. That is, until he repeated in all seriousness, "So, how is it going?"

Okay, I may be a tad sensitive to this staying-at-home-with-the-baby thing. A big part of the problem is that I still don't know exactly what to call myself. And believe me, when you're a dad who stays home, you find yourself constantly explaining who you are to everyone. People are fascinated by a man with a baby. Go to the grocery store on a Wednesday morning and it's, "Oh, do you stay at home with the baby?" Go to the library on a weekday afternoon and the librarians start asking you about your kid in too-loud-for-the-library voices. Show up at a friend's house-someone you haven't seen since the baby was born-and it's, "Did you get fired or something, man?"

So, what do I call myself? "Househusband" is definitely out. I don't need the good folks at ABC calling to cast me in their racy new spin-off series Desperate Househusbands. How bad does that sound? "Mr. Mom" is out, too. It's so 1980s-although I should add that the country band Lonestar recently cut a terrific song called "Mr. Mom" (my son and I dance around his room to that sweet tune). I don't call my working wife "Mrs. Dad," so why should I be saddled with the anachronistic "Mr. Mom?"

"Stay-at-home dad" seems to be the preferred moniker today, with "work-at-home dad" an increasingly likable option. Google the term "stay-at-home dad" and you'll find quite a bit of information, including news about the Annual At-Home Dads Convention (the ninth annual meeting was recently held in Chicago) and meetings of "dad groups" in communities across the country. You'll be pointed to neat sites such as Rebel dad and Slowlane, both dedicated to promoting the interests of America's 190,000 stay-at-home dads.

With the work of these groups, I foresee the day when stay-at-home dads will supplant soccer moms as a parenting force-and voting bloc-to be reckoned with.

The only drawback with "stay-at-home dad" is that it sounds a bit like a command we'd give our dog. I envision my wife getting in the car to go to work and, as she backs down the driveway, she stops, rolls down her window, points a finger at me, and orders: "Stay at home, dad. Stay. Good boy." And I turn back into the house, tail between my legs.

In my case, "work-at-home dad" sounds good, but also conveys a smidgen of self-doubt: "I do stay at home with the baby, but I work, too. Honest." Of course, when you introduce yourself as a "work-at-home dad," that inevitably leads to the question, "So, what do you do?" To which I reply, "I'm a freelance writer." Well, I might as well say that I'm an actor, philosopher, shaman, Nintendo champion, or some other person who has more potential earning power than actual earning power. One fellow at a neighborhood block party came right out and asked, "A freelance writer? There isn't any money in that, is there?"

Well, there's no money in being an at-home dad either, but we do have one reward: a great life and an envied life. In fact, my wife's high school had its career day and my wife jokingly asked if I'd volunteer to come in and talk about being a "kept man." I'm sure the lazy boys in the back of the room would suddenly perk up, interested in how they too could get into this line of non-work.

I'd probably disappoint the slackers, though, when I read off the requirements for being a stay-at-home dad: must work nights (including weekends and holidays), must constantly clean up someone else's mess, must be bilingual (English and Baby), and must be able to lift heavy objects (e.g., the box with disassembled crib, and baby in car seat). Inevitably, the kid with the green hair and "Anarkey Rulz" T-shirt would rise and ask, "Dude, we know what you do-but what do you call yourself?" And I'd say: "Just call me 'Dad.'"