Stay at Home Dad Juggles Kids and Career

Last November, I drove through the pick-up line at my son's elementary school and said, "Hop in, we're going to Disney."

My son usually slumps his shoulders in protest whenever I get him by car instead of on foot. "On foot" means we're headed to a nearby park for an hourlong playdate with his kindergarten buddies. "By car" means we're going straight back to the crumby old apartment.

But no droopy shoulders this time. "Disney!" he exclaimed. I barely had to help buckle him in.

Driving into Burbank, I explained that there wouldn't be any rides to go on and Mickey wouldn't be slapping high-fives, but that, instead, we'd join a bunch of people in red shirts, hold up signs and ask the big company for "a little more pie." After years of late-night toil banging out screenplays on my aged laptop -- and mornings that always came too soon and with too much rambunctiousness -- I recently had become a member of the Writers Guild of America. One of my first duties as a guild member was to join the pickets that descended on Hollywood in early November and stuck around like a nasty cold -- well into February. This was all very exciting.

So it was off to Disney to serve my duty with my other, more familiar, duties in tow -- ages 5 and 2 at the time.

I spouted off the WGA talking points in the car on the way to the studio -- partly to sort them out for myself, and partly to distract my son from my little shell game.

Much to my surprise, his enthusiasm seemed only slightly tempered by all this.

"We're still going to Disney, right?" he asked.

"Yep," I said.

Satisfied, he slapped high-fives with his 2-year-old sister, who was jubilantly swinging her legs in the car seat next to him.

I hadn't pictured it this way when I arrived in Los Angeles nine years earlier. Being in the Writers Guild, sure, I imagined that. After all, it's one of the first platforms on which a Tinseltown scribe finds himself in line for success.

But making the rounds and paying dues while simultaneously wiping noses, changing diapers and doling out juice boxes was not in the picture at all. At least not with people under 4 feet tall.

Yet there we were at a side entrance to Disney Corporate with picket signs, boxed beverages, some plastic dinosaurs and a diaper bag, all fired up to give 'em hell. And we did just that -- for 90 minutes anyway. Then my daughter's flirtations with the traffic barreling along Riverside Boulevard became a bit too brazen for my blood pressure. My wife and I, the cautious ones among our own siblings, aren't sure how our little girl ended up with so much gusto. But she's got it in spades. And, since she entered our life, I've begun getting gray hairs in similar proportion.

Picket signs, by the way, make quite an effective arm extension if one should find himself fending off the honking hoards to protect his little princess. Just don't expect to make many friends on the picket lines.

And, so, we called it a day -- something I've learned to do with less reluctance in the past six years.

Having the kids with me at my first major career event was a natural. Fatherhood and forging a living as a writer have been a tandem learning curve for me thus far.

Writing has never been a chore. I've been doing it since approximately age 3 (thank you, George Lucas) and probably could do it with my eyes closed. Come to think of it, I'm sure I have.

It's the balancing that's the bother. Kids, housework, marriage, fledgling career -- it's a delicate tightrope to be sure. If not for cyberspace hobnobbing, I'd be sunk. Between schoolwork, park visits, soccer camp, swim lessons and feeding the family, those Hollywood power lunches are next to impossible to land.

But you learn to compromise. The Hollywood aspirant's cliche is a laptop and a table at Starbucks. For me, it's more often a notepad and a seat in the playroom at McDonald's.

So, how did I get here?

My wife, Anne, and I were married in 2001 -- two years after moving to Los Angeles. At the time, I was working for a meager wage at a copy center at the University of California, Los Angeles, and penning screenplays in the hopes of landing that ever elusive six-figure sale. My wife, on the other hand, was already sinking her roots as a career copy editor at the Los Angeles Times. The gulch between our earning powers was substantial, to say the least.

Anne became pregnant shortly after our honeymoon, and neither of us was excited about the prospect of putting our soon-to-be firstborn into daycare. Or, more accurately, I hadn't really had an opinion about it until Anne listed off a litany of why trusting our baby's well-being to the hands of strangers was a bad, bad, BAD idea, both cost-wise and in ways far too disturbing to delve into.

So we agreed: One of us would stay home after the baby arrived. And, because of that wage gulch and Los Angeles' status as one of the world's most expensive cities, it was clear who "the one" would have to be.

Remember that scene in "JAWS" where Roy Scheider realizes there's a shark in the water? I do. I lived it.

To be fair, the prospect of staying home with my infant son did have appeal. There was the bonding we'd do, plus all the writing I could get done during "down time." On the other hand, what the hell did I know about babies?

But these things don't wait, and we didn't have any more promising options. My wife would have six weeks of maternity leave to get me up to speed. Like a Berlitz course.

Six years later, that big sale hasn't come and I'm still learning.

Difficult? Yes. Worth it? No question.

I'm not the same person I was back then. Anne and I laugh when we think back to our perspectives before we had kids. Mostly, we laugh at me.

It took me a full 20 minutes to change my son's diaper the first time. There's video to prove it. Today I can diaper a bottom "in the field" in a matter of seconds.

Six years ago, I had a hard time running a coffee maker. Today I can scour near-barren cupboards for ingredients and pull together a decent -- some (my wife) would even say darned good -- meal.

I know the precise aisles at my local supermarket in which to locate animal crackers, string cheese and Wet Ones. And my wife and I know how to sherpa four suitcases, a stroller, two car seats and a couple wanderlusting children through the security gates at LAX with a surprisingly minimal amount of sweat and tears.

OK, sometimes we know how do that. But it's been done.

Two months ago, a new baby boy arrived in the house. Anne and I are again grappling with sleep deprivation and new-baby-awkwardness. The difference is, this time we have two merciless judges watching us at all times.

It's funny how quickly you forget things once a child moves from one development stage to another. With three kids in the house, we'll have plenty of reminders of stages past.

Three is a handful, to say the least. As my mother-in-law put it, we're a real parade when loading up the car.

And yet it seems somewhat easier than the first time around. It's like the sequel that's as good as the original, I guess. There's all the stuff you liked in the first place, plus a few changes to make it all a little more interesting....