Big daddy

37 years old, and I really don't know what I think about having kids. My biological clock seems to be on snooze; this is not true of most of the women I date.

But the 2000 census reveals what I'd been thinking (hoping) all along: Single people living alone in Washington make up a higher percentage than Mr. and Mrs. Cleaver and the Beaver. Single households constitute 26 percent of all Evergreen State residents, compared with only 24 percent of households who are married with children. In Seattle alone, 105,542 singles live solo—that's 40 percent of all residences, making Rainville second only to Washington, D.C., in the number of one-person households.

We're rich, we're hip, we're selfish, we're single!

As the youngest of three, I have no experience taking care of youngsters. In addition, none of my siblings have chosen to reproduce, so there aren't nieces or nephews running about. My ideas on raising children come from The Brady Bunch, airline flights, and baby-themed movies.

But as I'm edging toward the big 4-0 with nary a mini-me in sight, I'm feeling more pressure about my lack of reproduction—as the end of the Stusser line and all that.

But am I ready? Is anyone? How could I find out?

Short of lurking around preschools, becoming a Big Brother, or hiring/abducting a kid for intensive interviews, I wanted to find a way to evaluate fatherhood without actually getting anyone pregnant. That's where my friend Julie came in. Buddies since high school, we attended proms together, joked as class clowns, and kept in touch over the years. While I drifted into a life of writing and wild debauchery, Julie met her husband, lived in a cul-de-sac, and cranked out five kids—before her spouse of seven years told her at a Mariners game that he was gay and could no longer live the lie.

Given the Jerry Springer-like experience that forced her into single motherhood, she didn't balk when I asked if she might loan her family for a little Father's Day Test ("You want to take my kids off my hands? Here are the keys to the minivan"). Actually, she not only liked the concept of a test run but felt it should be mandatory before leaping into a family affair.

HONEY, I'M HOME!

Thursday, 4:50 p.m.: I arrive late. Julie treats me like the husband and plays the role to the hilt. "Where the hell have you been?" she yells over the rabble.

"Sorry, traffic fucking sucks."

"FAWK!" repeats one of the twins.

Observation #1: I need to watch my language.

Julie is busy cutting apples, wiping goo off the little guy, and talking on the phone. "Go out there and make sure no one drowns," is her only instruction.

The backyard resembles something out of Apocalypse Now: Objects fly overhead, wild animal sounds emanate from the brush, bizarre death rituals take place in the porta-pool, party bubbles drift like mustard gas, and tattoos—from bubblegum packs—adorn feet, forearms, and foreheads of the villagers.

"Hey, Stusser!" says orange-haired Asa, 5, swinging a hose within an eyelash of my retina. "Butthead!" yells Dane, the other half of the twin package.

Cole, 7, the oldest boy, hands me an ice-cold Coca-Cola. Well, that's sweet. I snap the lid open, it sprays in my face—all shook up, the oldest trick in the book.

5 p.m.: I've been in this not-so-controlled environment for 10 minutes and am tattooed, stomped, sprayed, and body-slammed. "Boundaries!" Julie hollers from the kitchen.

5:30 p.m.: It's 80 degrees, and we're heading to Luther Burbank Park. Julie's shouting instructions and organizing the picnic when I remind her that I'm supposed to do the bulk of the work.

"OK, then, go get the twins dressed for swimming, pack the cooler with drinks, put sunblock on all of 'em, grab the towels out of the laundry, and put the shovels and buckets in the car."

The first thing that hits me is that I don't have a clue what kids can DO at any particular age: Can a 5-year-old make his own sandwich? Were any of them still in diapers? Could the twins understand language? Was it OK to see the 9-year-old girl naked? Up to what age are you allowed to sunbathe pantsless?

I ask Rae where the garbage is. "In this house we don't have garbage. We eat everything." She's supposed to be the helpful one.

6 p.m.: "OOWWW!" I've almost strangled Ty trying to put him in the car seat. Apparently the clasp goes between his legs, not into the regular buckle on the main seat.

We pick up Rae's best friend on the way to the beach. "Another kid?" I whine. "You'll see. It's easier," replies Julie. And it is: Rae and her pal amuse each other.

Observation: If I ever do this, I want a girl.

"No Lifeguard on Duty." The Feds can stock the streets with meter maids and riot gear, but our public parks can't get a few damn lifeguards? Where are the priorities, people!

6:30 p.m.: I'd love to jump in the lake, but realize I'd be leaving Julie alone in the watchtower position, so we sit and talk, counting off the kids (1-6), telling them "No" a lot, and reminiscing about jumping off docks, bee stings, and banging our heads.