I had managed to ignore the hammering sounds. The occasional loud "THUMP" nearly roused me to investigate. I dimly recalled that Jake, my 11 year-old, had poked his head in from the garage some time ago and mentioned something about a skateboard ramp.

I believe I may have nodded.

The realization that I had given tacit permission, again, for God-knows-what project made my stomach lurch. I should check it out. But my writing was flowing. I had already taken 3 breaks that morning to find him and a neighborhood urchin some food, to put on a load of laundry and to do last week's dishes. I chewed another antacid, took another swig of coffee and returned to my keyboard.

Superficially, there are not a lot of differences between a stay-at-home Dad-writer and his female counterpart. We both need to get work done while trying to maintain some semblance of order and control over our household.

Closer examination however, reveals that the differences lie largely in the degree of order and control and our respective tolerance levels. In this, I believe men have a decided edge over women.

I vacuum when I trip over dust bunnies. I do laundry when the dirty pile is at eye level. Dishes must be washed when there are no more clean ones and rinsing just won't cut through the crud. Howls of pain from children do, of course, require at least a cursory examination. I've found it helpful to keep a box of bandages in my desk drawer, saving me a trip to the medicine cabinet.

School vacations are the tough times. Can't pawn the dear little dimpled darlin's off on some hapless teacher for several hours. Meals used to be a nuisance but now both my boys can operate the can opener and microwave. I keep the cupboard well stocked with mini-ravioli and the freezer with pizza pockets.

My oldest boy, Francis, is a teen now and initially it was disconcerting when he began to stay up later than I. But now he sleeps till past noon, so I encourage his visits with Letterman and Conan, offering to make him some coffee before I hit the hay myself. Now, all I need to do is distract Jake for a few hours and I usually have several semi-peaceful hours in the mornings to work. Luckily, Jake is a "doer," and often disappears for hours playing somewhere. I have an iron-clad rule that he has to check in with me by phone, or in person, every 8 hours.

Networking is important of course. I have established a working relationship with the Moms in the neighborhood. I'll take their urchins for extended periods of time in exchange for their caring and feeding of Jake. It helps enormously that we have 3 televisions and 5 video game systems in our rec-room. I only have to toss handfuls of food down there occasionally or set a pitcher of juice and a few glasses at the top of the stairs.

My zen-like state of benign indifference works well, but is not imperturbable. Along with the howls of pain, I've trained myself to respond to the sounds of shattering glass and certain key words like "police," "broken," "power saw," and "car." So when the banging and clattering and thumping from the garage had stopped and Jake poked his head in to ask me to move the car out of the driveway because it was in his way, I decided to investigate.

He'd done a fine job. Using scraps of wood and plywood he'd fashioned a nearly-serviceable skateboard ramp. Initially I was a bit taken aback when I noticed he'd taken apart a wooden chair I had been meaning to fix for the last few years, then realized that his initiative had saved me some trouble and allowed me to reduce my 4-figure to-do list by one.

All his ramp needed was a bit more bracing and something to attach to the front to make it flush with the pavement.

A couple of hours, a few shingles and some more cannibalized wood bits later, we were in business. He and his buddies were soon flying over the ramp and my bandage supply was depleting rapidly.

When I belatedly remembered my neglected work I was too late.

Francis was sitting at the computer engaged in online mayhem with Quake, or Unreal Tournament or some other shoot-em-up. Without taking his eyes off the carnage he said "Relax Dad. I saved your story before exiting."

I considered giving him a time limit and then returning to my writing but I'd gotten a few pages done before being sidetracked and the laundry was still piled shoulder-high. Tomorrow was Steve's Mom's turn for Jake. If I could manage not to trip over the dust bunnies for another few days I'd be fine.

This essay first appeared in E2K: A Journal for the new literary paradigm.