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sinGleD; out
mother, that I was a go-to-work father, and that Phyllis’s tendency to control the kids’ activities placed me at a remove, but that is somewhat of a cop-out. As I watch my sons, my stepsons, and my son-in-law inter- act with their young children, changing diapers, holding the bottles, and essentially being an equal partner in the endeavor, I realize that I could have and should have done more. I must concede that my efforts to change diapers were, thankfully, difficult and short-lived (yucchhh!) and, of course, that I’m tired of hearing how uninvolved my generation of males was; I’ll also cop out again and state that times have changed— and I’m still not keen to change diapers. (That doesn’t make me a bad person, does it?)
Anyway, there is no doubt in my mind that whatever relationship I had with the children before Phyllis and I split, it was categorically dif- ferent from the one that ensued. My understanding with Phyllis, which ultimately found its way into the “Separation Agreement,” essentially provided for Wednesday evenings, alternate weekends, and one addi- tional Sunday each month with the children. We also shared holidays and the portion of summer vacation not taken up with camp.
Six months after Phyllis and I separated, and while I was still strug- gling to be a parent in charge, I somehow mustered the courage to take all three children to Park City, Utah, for a week of skiing (and tending to Rachel, who managed to bring chicken pox with her on the plane). Surviving that week certainly bolstered my confidence, and, over the next few years, I took Danny skiing in Aspen and at Copper Mountain, Colorado, and Peter and Rachel on an extended winter trip to Vail. (Here, I am being a bit unfair, because on that trip I had considerable help from Kathy.)
If Danny was available, the three children would take the train from Scarsdale and the M104 bus from Grand Central to the corner of Broad- way and, I believe, West 60th Street. If he wasn’t, I would usually drive to and from Scarsdale, transporting Peter and Rachel via an Oldsmobile Cutlass that my parents had provided to me when they bought a new car. (This led to the maintaining in the glove compartment of a list that would show which child last sat in the “shotgun” seat.)
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