"That woman from the Brooklyn Heights a.s.sociation."

"Oh, it can wait," I started to say, but Tim sat up and turned on his bed light. "It sounded important," he said as he reached over to the answering machine and pressed play.

ABIGAIL HOSFORD.

h.e.l.lO, THIS IS ABIGAIL HOSFORD, PRESIDENT OF THE BROOKLYN HEIGHTS a.s.sOCIATION, calling for Katherine. Hi, Katherine, I'm surprised we've never met. The reason for my call is that I understand from my a.s.sociate Pamela Wyeth-Bacon that you are a close friend of Mrs. Ashworth's, although I don't believe she uses her husband's name. Might you call me ASAP at the office or at my home (we're up late!)-we need to know the name she goes by, and perhaps, and I'm hoping this won't- It's Abigail again, simply wondering if you might arrange a proper introduction of sorts. All of us at the Heights a.s.sociation would love to welcome your good friend to the neighborhood. Thank you in advance for making this happen. Hold on . . . oh, right, yes . . . we're looking forward to meeting you, too? Eager for your call. Cheers.

TIM.

ALL THOSE YEARS TEACHING HAD OBSCURED ONE SIMPLE FACT: n.o.bODY ELSE'S children are as interesting as your own. Or as perplexing, sure, or as frustrating.

That was the gist of what I tried to write one early October afternoon. I'd been diligent with journal entries. Lately, though, it was proving more difficult. To be the recorder of Teddy and Sam's histories seemed a tall order, considering what else was required: to be a frequent referee, both judge and jury, to navigate the treacherous terrain of sharing and turn taking, to covertly implement my own intricate system for bribing them (which meant establishing a complex yet comprehensible program of snacks and treats), to amuse/inspire/educate them, to keep them from harm's way, and somehow, while juggling all of the above, manage to look happy. However, this cannot be emphasized enough-I'm not complaining.

Not that I didn't have complaints. I did. I had one big one. Names. How was I to remember all the names of all the mothers and babysitters and nannies and the oh-so-many children? It was impossible to differentiate between little Sam Blumenthal and even littler Sammy Plant and chubby Max Steiner and not so chubby Maxwell Silverstein and Ruben and Rhonda and Rebecca and Rory . . .

Right away I had to abandon any fantasies of posterity. This journal wasn't for historians. It was only for Kate. So I developed a kind of shorthand, starting with a story about What's-Her-Name, a mother whose name I'd forgotten yet again. She had accosted me on the playground about the boys not wearing warm enough clothes. As I tried to tell Kate about the incident, I was nearly derailed by my inability to conjure up the woman's name. "You know the mother I mean," I said in a pre-Alzheimer's panic.

"No, I don't," Kate said. "There are so many mothers."

"You're telling me!" I couldn't s.n.a.t.c.h the name from the place in my brain where names were stored. Then I remembered the conversation. Not what was said but what happened when What's-Her-Name turned her head at a particular angle so that the sun, which was setting over the Manhattan skyline, backlit her face, revealing a rather unfortunate field of blond facial hair. When hit by that late-afternoon light in Pierrepont Playground, What's-Her-Name became known as Mom with a Beard. Oh, sure, she had a name, but for the time being, Mom with a Beard would have to suffice. Even better, Kate knew exactly which mom I meant.

She also knew Milk Mom, who, rumor had it, still breast-fed her five-year-old boy, Jett. I had proof, having watched the boy named Jett pester his mother in the children's section of Book Court. In fact, he bothered her so much that she led him between History and Biography, lifted up her shirt, exposed her tired and overused nipple (long like a straw), and let the boy take a few quick sucks.

There was n.a.z.i Mom-incidentally, not a German mother but a stern Southern woman who said to her son in a thick Georgia drawl, "Honey, get your little b.u.t.t over here before I spank it red."

There were Flicka, National Velvet, and Misty of Chincoteague-a cl.u.s.ter of equine-featured women who seemed inseparable, always moving en ma.s.se with their kids in strollers, all with long manes of hair, wearing similar leather boots that clacked like hooves as they walked.

There were Eager-to-Please Mom, Best-Dressed Mom, Grateful Dead Mom, Cindy McCain Mom, Pippi Longstocking Mom, and Mom with a Man's Voice.

Kate preferred the nice nicknames to the cruel ones. But sometimes I could get her to laugh out loud against her will. Dad Without a Clue, Mom with Beaver Teeth, and Momma-licious.

There was one nickname that I waited to reveal, holding out for a moment when Kate would need to laugh most.

The Weasel.

His real name was Wendell. But he was dubbed the Weasel the first time I met that odd, short man with the Dutch-boy haircut, his dyed-black bangs cut straight across his flat forehead. The Weasel had an extremely small head, three-quarter-size, and the tiny hands of a ten-year-old, except they were hairy. Indeed, the Weasel was an immensely hairy creature, with bug eyes and a faint ring of white foam around his perpetually chapped, cracked lips. His teeth had a tinge of black-due, or so the story went, to an excess of medicines he had to take as a baby. Rumors about the Weasel were rampant. Some claimed he had a thick, long scar that traversed his chest from a radical open-heart surgery performed on him when he was a boy. His bluish skin tint was explained by a lack of circulation. In fact, Martha Stewart Mom and Mom Who Knows More About You Than You Do had told me the Weasel had a condition that at any moment could claim his life. They competed to explain: "That's why he has all that energy! That's why he's so joyous!"

I remarked with sarcasm too subtle for some, "Oh, I agree. When I see him, I'm reminded of life's beauty! And suddenly, I don't feel I deserve to complain!"

Surely, though, there was a cost. Perhaps my secret world of nicknames and character reduction kept me at arm's length from the others. Maybe I appeared more the observer and less the partaker. I felt ostracized. No, not by the nannies. I knew they liked me, and lately, I'd made inroads with the au pairs. But to the mothers and the handful of other fathers, I was not to be trusted.

Of course, I didn't tell this to Kate. Why worry her? And yet it was hard to watch the Weasel charm the other mothers each afternoon on the playground. Even a small gesture, like Dad Without a Clue offering a stick of Juicy Fruit and a Wet 'n Wipe to Casual Mom, threatened me. So I clung to that hard lesson of life that history teaches: It's all cyclical, really. One day the Weasel will reveal his true nature and fall out of favor. Dad Without a Clue will flake out and forget to pick up his kid. And maybe one day I will be the Dad with All the Answers.

Still, I'd begun to doubt myself. Then one morning-wah-lah-a minor miracle occurred. It happened the same morning I'd dropped off a note from Kate to this Anna Brody person. The note was simple, sweet, saying basically, Welcome to the neighborhood. Kate had asked me to hand-deliver it to the Ashworth-Brody house. House was an understatement. It was easy to find, what with all the workers-the painters, the plasterers, the plumbers, the men on the scaffolding, the roofers; most of Brooklyn seemed to be hard at work transforming the building, which up until the previous March had been divided into eight apartments, back into the newly restored circa-1848 Pierrepont Mansion.

Kate's note was received by a pert-looking, officious type who seemed to be overseeing the delivery of a rather large painting. It must have had some value, for she had security guards with her. Before taking the note, she asked me who I was. I said, "No one." She looked at me suspiciously. I continued, "It's from my wife to Anna. They're old friends."

She said nothing and turned to go back inside.

I couldn't help but ask, "When will they be moving in?"

"Soon, wouldn't you think?"

I headed toward m.u.f.fins and More, where I squeezed into my favorite corner table and began to work, which meant reading the Post, the Daily News, and the Heights Press before hunkering down to reconceive the middle section of my dissertation.

Later, I fell asleep with my head in my hands and woke to hear the following from a voice I recognized: "He's turned up the heat. What was an occasional drunken request is now an almost daily beg."

It was Mom with Moxie (aka Claudia Valentine) talking to Martha Stewart Mom and Pretty-in-Pink Mom. They were huddled at their regular corner table, and Mom with Moxie needed comforting.

Martha Stewart Mom said, "Well, forget Dan for a moment. What do you want, Claudia? What do you want?"

Claudia looked around at her girlfriends and said, "That's easy. I'm sick of not having enough money. The husbands in this neighborhood with their hedge funds and their cushy Wall Street bonuses. At the start of the longest bull market ever, who did I marry? Dan the Bear. Mr. Better-Safe-Than-Sorry. He sold our Microsoft back in ninety-six, he bought a bunch of AOL-Time Warner right before the bust, and he balked at Chad Bixby's tip to get in on the ground floor of a little company called Google. For the last several years, our entire nest egg has been sitting in a money market account, making squat in interest."

I started to transcribe her words, thinking Kate might enjoy hearing the kind of conversation she was missing.

"So this morning he tells me that Chad Bixby made a crisp four and a half million last week from his hedge fund, and then he asks me if I'd please let him try b.u.t.t s.e.x just this once. I mean, he's begging for it, so I make Dan the Bear an offer: 'Fine, sweetie. Make a million by Easter, and you can f.u.c.k me in the a.s.s.' "

The other mothers gasped.

"Then I told him, 'Make ten million, and you can stay in there permanently.' "

Some men wait their whole lives to overhear this kind of conversation.

Unfortunately, it was time for me to go pick up Teddy and Sam from preschool, so I stood up to leave. From the stunned expressions on their collective faces, it became clear that while they hadn't noticed me before, they noticed me now.

"Don't mind me," I said, scooting past.

But there was no denying I'd heard everything, so to put them at ease, I turned and said, "Forgive the intrusion, but what happens if he doesn't make the money?"

Claudia paused. "I haven't provided for that."

"My suggestion, for what it's worth?"

"Yes?"

"If he doesn't make the million by Easter?"

"Yes?"

I had their attention.

"Then you f.u.c.k him in the a.s.s."

There was a deathly silence. Oops, I thought. Then Claudia slapped her knee and roared triumphantly, "Yes!" The other mothers laughed nervously. I hurried off, smiling to myself, sensing I'd just pa.s.sed a crucial test. I had entered the inner circle. I was now an honorary mom-albeit a mom with a p.e.n.i.s-but an honorary mom just the same.

Arriving late with the boys, I noticed right away that all the children at Angus Strubel's fourth birthday party were in costume except for two, and those two were mine. I'd hurried out of the house knowing I'd forgotten something, and now I remembered what it was. As I stood in the Strubels' doorway, Veronica, my favorite of the Jamaican babysitters, came up the steps with little Benji Walker, who was dressed in a store-bought clown costume. I smiled at Veronica, hoping for but not getting any sympathy. From across the room, in a voice louder than necessary, Gail Strubel shouted, "I told Kate it was a costume party!"

I shrugged as if to say, It's news to me.

"Kate said she wrote it down on the calendar!"

The calendar. That faithfully prepared doc.u.ment. The master schedule. How Kate labored to make sure all playdates, activities, phone numbers, and especially parties were recorded there. "Without this," she'd said only days earlier, "we won't get through the year." Somehow, in addition to working too many hours a week for Bruno Schwine, Kate found time to wash and fold clothes, precook and freeze meals, and pack snacks. Not only did she wear the pants, she was the uber-mom. She missed playing the mom part. And for the Angus Strubel party, she couldn't have made it easier. Just dress them according to the following instructions, she'd written on the note for that day.

I remembered it all now. But by the time I could race back home, gather up their costumes, hurry back, and dress them, the party would be nearly over. What would be the point?

I turned to see Teddy trying to pull off little Chip Bigelow's Darth Vader mask. "No, Teddy," I said, but it was too late. Teddy had the mask, and Chip didn't seem to mind. Sam clung to my leg until Angus's father, Dale Strubel, dressed as Frankenstein, appeared in the doorway to announce, "The haunted house is no longer haunted. But up on the roof, we have a witches' brew and a hunt for the missing mummy's finger and a great view of an almost full moon!" As he led the charge up the stairs, a cl.u.s.ter of kids followed, including Teddy, wearing the Darth Vader mask, and an eager Sam.

I felt the reproachful glare of Wilma Strubel, Gail's mother-in-law. "My fault," I said. "My wife made two terrific costumes."

Which was an understatement: Teddy's pirate costume was an elaborate affair-a curly black wig, one of Kate's old blazers (bright blue), a red sash, his black L. L. Bean rain boots, a plastic sword from the Toy Attic, a makeup kit for drawing on a mustache and applying a latex scar, and a rubber hook to hold in his left hand. Sam's ghost was simpler but was exactly what he wanted: a sheet with the head hole cut and hemmed, white sweatpants, brand-new, all-white tennis shoes, and a gray-white pancake base to cover his face.

When I started to describe the costumes, Wilma raised her freckled hand and said, "You don't have to convince me."

"I'd go get them," I said, "if we had the time. Anyway, the boys seem fine about it."

Wilma grunted, then moved into the kitchen, where the other Strubels-each of them large and lumpy-sat around a circular table, eating second and third helpings of the Big Bird cake.

Wanting to escape, I considered going up to the roof. But the sounds of Dale and the sugar-laced children laughing and stomping convinced me I was not needed, at least not yet. So I went on a quest for some candy I could pocket and snack on later. I made my way to the abandoned bas.e.m.e.nt and found that synthetic cobwebs had been stretched over the banister leading down the stairs. Other webs had been strategically woven around the room. Cardboard witches and bats and pumpkins had been taped to the walls. And on a hidden stereo, a CD of ghost sounds, banging doors, and creaking floors filled the musty air. Many kids had left unwanted stickers and candy wrappers scattered across the s.h.a.g carpet. A bowl of potato chips had been knocked over, and the chips had been stepped on, crushed into little bits. In the corner, on a plenty big enough TV, a video played of a recent animated extravaganza from Walt Disney. And when a trio of unfortunate-looking animals appeared to sing-mercifully, the TV had been muted-I slumped into a child's beanbag chair and had this thought: Too many guests, too many presents, too much candy and cake for any one kid.

I closed my eyes, though not for sleep. I closed them because I couldn't bear looking at the well-intended decorating effort any longer. It depressed me. But closing my eyes didn't help, because I pictured the grotesque stack of presents upstairs, most of them bought at the last minute from the same toy store on Pineapple Street. Most frightening of all was the image of Angus Strubel's privileged frosting-coated fingers tearing off the wrapping paper of his many presents.

When I opened my eyes, I was startled. Standing before me, her face merely inches from mine, was a young girl dressed in a lacy white dress. Her blond hair had been pulled back with a festive pink ribbon. She was either Cinderella or Goldilocks. She had these almost unreal curls, her big eyes were maple-syrup brown, and her lips were lined with chocolate. In her raised left hand, she held a book.

She stared at me with a kind of otherworldly wisdom. I thought, This may be the most beautiful child ever. She kept staring. Unnerved at first, I did my best to stare back, determined to outlast her. I was about to ask her name when she handed me the book to read. Then she crawled onto my lap, rested her head and those curls on my shoulder, and waited for me to start.

Five pages in, I was overcome: This girl, light in my arms, made for a feeling unlike any I'd ever had with a child. It was disarming. My boys had no capacity to be this still, to give in. They fussed and kicked and wiggled. But she was so light, as if she were warm air, and I read in a near whisper until, the next thing I knew, a woman said, "Somebody's got the touch."

I looked up and found a woman standing before me. "Oh," I said, "You must be the mother . . ."

"Yes."

"I'm sorry. She just climbed up . . ."

"She's very particular."

"Apparently not," I said.

"Nonsense. I should thank you. She needed a nap."

That was when I realized the little girl had fallen asleep.

I introduced myself.

"I know who you are," she said, smiling.

Really?

Upstairs the kids were bashing a pinata. The party was almost over.

"Well," I said, lifting up the daughter to her mother, "we didn't get to finish the book."

"Next time," the mother said.

"Yes," I said, even though I remember thinking, Who said anything about there being a next time?

KATE.

DURING THOSE FIRST WEEKS, IT BECAME CLEAR: FOR THE SAKE OF MY BOYS, I would have to learn how to leave work at work. So each day at five P.M. sharp, no matter what Bruno and I were discussing or whatever obscure foundation I was researching, I would stop cold, put my desk in order, leave promptly, and head toward the subway.

But my arriving home at a consistent time didn't guarantee a smooth transition. The boys had acute radar for when I was physically present but mentally elsewhere. It wasn't easy to quiet my mind after a day of drinking in so much information. The innumerable charities worthy of support had begun to overwhelm me.

So here was what I learned to do. Each evening, on the packed-like-a-sardine-can Number 2 or 3 train going downtown, instead of continuing the conversation with myself, I'd pick my people. To the man in the gray hooded sweatshirt flaunting his new Air Jordans, I imagined telling him about two competing charities-One World Running and Sole 4 Soles-both dedicated to providing new and gently used shoes to the needy everywhere. To the young angry girl with multiple piercings, I mentioned that what makes me mad are the hundred thousand new chemicals that have been unleashed in our environment in the last five years. And what we are we going to do about it? To the pasty white businesswoman who boarded at Chambers Street clutching a bottle of Evian, I stunned her with this unacceptable fact: Almost one-third of the world's people don't get enough iodine from food and water. This can result in mental slowness and the needless loss of more than a billion IQ points around the world. And to everyone on the train, I shouted about how with the Micronutrient Initiative, we can iodize salt for only two to three cents per person per year! By imagining these conversations, I could quiet my racing, overexcited mind and for a brief moment feel that these needy causes weren't just mine to champion. They were ours. Then, bing-bong, the subway doors opened, I stepped out with some others, climbed the eighteen steps, turned right, and walked toward one of three elevators that lifted me up to the street level of the Clark Street station, pushed through the turnstile, emerging outside with the sweet sense that my brain had been drained. The twelve-minute walk home through the Heights was used to clear out any leftover bits that might still be bouncing about. I made it all about breathing and walking at a moderate speed, gently directing all thoughts toward the approaching moment of the key in the door, deadbolt turning, the breadwinner's victorious return home.

In terms of Tim, I had to make room for the disappointment factor. No doubt the house would be much messier than I'd like. Toys scattered throughout, dishes stacked in the sink, a handful of half-finished activities, all of which pointed to what was becoming abundantly clear: Tim's basic inability to handle the task. But it wouldn't help to point this out. What helped me most was to picture worst-case scenarios-the tub overflowing, broken dishes shattered on the checkerboard linoleum, the kitchen on fire. These catastrophic imaginings made it possible for me to accept whatever I found with an easy smile.

Mostly, though, I didn't want Tim to feel defensive. Without a doubt, he was doing the very best he could. Besides, as his favorite historian says, and I paraphrase: "Most of us suffer from unreal expectations."

I feared I was guilty of this, too.

"I'm back," I called out. That day what I found inside made me gasp. The living room/dining room/toy room was immaculate. The hallway, pristine. Everything was in place, and everything that wasn't in place was in a better place. Teddy once asked me, "Mommy, am I dreaming this?" I had to wonder if I was dreaming.

No one was home. Then I remembered my family was at Angus Strubel's birthday party.

I went back and found the kitchen spotless. Well, not spotless, but as spotless as our kitchen ever gets. On the table, there were two s...o...b..-Doo plates that must have held cookies, and two plastic cups half filled with now warm milk.

So maybe the world is going to h.e.l.l, but not the Welches here on Oak Lane, no, we're on the way up . . .

That was when I pulled open the door to the boys' room and saw the costumes. All laid out. Waiting to be worn.

The sound that erupted out of me defied description. Surely our neighbors heard it. Furious, I called over to the Strubels' and learned that Tim had just left with the boys. Gwen asked if everything was all right. I lied and said, "Yes." By the time they got home, I had shut the door to our room. Tim found me there, seething, bloodthirsty. He told me to wait, saying he could explain.

I heard him start a bath for the boys. When he opened the door to our room again, he asked first thing, "Is this because of the costumes?"

I glared at him. "That, too." Then I snapped, something about being disappointed and hurt and that if we didn't f.u.c.king need the money, I'd quit my f.u.c.king job right now, which wasn't exactly true.

Tim said he was sorry.

I said, "What will it be next time?"

He tried to calm me down by claiming the party had been a disaster and the boys hadn't minded and the costumes were going to be a knockout, best on the block, and if they'd worn them that day, they wouldn't wear them on Halloween, and then he said, "You see, Kate, sometimes even you are wrong."

"I'm not wrong."

"Yes, you are. Case in point . . ." That was when he told me he'd met Anna Brody.

"She was at the party?"

"She came at the end."