*Written in 1989* I've never considered myself a stereotyped male. So when I got the chance to prove myself, I took it eagerly. My wife and I were going to trade places for two weeks - she travelling abroad, and I staying put to look after our six-year-old son and three-year-old daughter. A househusband's day typically begins at six. 'Leave me alone,' I beg from beneath the bed clothes as my daughter presses her doll into my face. Some hope! I rush downstairs for a strong cup of coffee. A couple of hours later I wish that breakfast time was bedtime, so vigorous has been the activity. That repast itself is the very opposite of an elegant social occasion. Laying the table, serving muesli, making toast, are more or less simultaneous events. Teeth brushed, hair combed, we leave for my son's school, then deposit my daughter at her playgroup. Two precious undisturbed hours later, I'm back to collect her, jostling with mothers and 'au pairs'. Not a Dad in sight! Being a shy sort I grab my daughter and run. Various neighbours take pity on me and have the children round to play with their little offsprings. "What a wonderful time they've had," murmurs one mother reassuringly as she delivers home a couple of black-eyed ragamuffins. Are these mine? Thanks to children's television, I survive until the day's next major crisis: supper.  Now, I can heat a tin of baked beans with the best of them. I've been known to fry an egg or boil a potato. But that's not enough variety for 14 days, my wife has insisted. Backing words with action she has mercifully stocked the freezer with pre-cooked culinary delights. I wrestle with the oven controls and manage to heat up a lentil casserole. The mealtime itself is an ordeal - a romp, it could be termed. I try being firm, I try being tolerant. I shout, I beg quietly on my knees. I try engaging them in deep and meaningful conversation. But it is all to no avail. Eventually the food is down, and, relieved, I head for the mindless tranquillity of the washup. Come bedtime all is forgiven as a soft little face whispers in my ear, "I love you, Daddy". Fourteen days is a long time in the life of a helpless male child minder. By its end my respect for my wife has soared to new heights. But what of hers for me? "Darling," she says on her return, "have you remembered to water my pot plants?" I beam with pride. "Yes, dear, they're all alive and well." (It's just as well that she had put a note beside one of them saying: "Don't water me, I'm a cactus.")