The best birth control in the world

This is exactly the same car I had.

It was 4 a.m. on a Monday in early July. That's about all I remember. Cruising east on Interstate 94 with my Dad in my Dodge Duster. Yes, I'm embarrassed to admit that I owned a Duster. Have I mentioned that I hate Dodges? I hate Dodges. But we'll get to that. Dad wanted to beat the traffic for our long run to Nashville. Because there's a lot of traffic headed through central Wisconsin on a Monday. Or something.

It was somewhere on that roadtrip, amid multiple listenings of "Kashmir," that I stopped being a high school student. There were no more graduation parties to go to and, rather suddenly, I stopped being a social butterfly. Outside of Chattanooga, Dad told me I should visit a strip club sometime in my lifetime. "It's fun for about 10 minutes," he told me. I have yet to fulfill his vision for me.

It was two 50-gallon drums full of this stuff. Plus more. So much more.

That long, two-plus day trip brought me to Fort Lauderdale, Florida. In July. I was going to live with my aunt and uncle for a year, taking care of their children and working for my uncle's electrical company. My first job in Florida was simple: Strip all the wiring piled around the shed to get the copper out. The big, thick 12-amp wires were easy. Less so, for the thin wires used to power electrical outlets.

I would wake up in the morning, go to the shed, turn on the radio, and spend 8 hours stripping wire. It took me three weeks to strip $2,500 worth of wire. I named my utility knife "Edgey" somewhere along the line. It was July (have I mentioned that?) in Florida and it was not pleasant work.

Neither was my next job. My aunt, we'll call her Florence, was 8.5 months pregnant when I moved in. There was already a 2-year-old hellfire of a daughter in the mix. After the baby was born, it was my job to help. Warm the bottles, change the diapers, burp the baby, prevent the 2-year-old from torturing the family dog. I was a house husband.

After giving birth in August, Florence went back to work. That made the game Jim vs. Babies, for those of you scoring at home. She would leave around noon or 1 p.m. and I would put them down for naps, clean lunch dishes, watch MTV for an hour, then struggle through the afternoon with an infant and a toddler until my uncle, Kevdoll, came home around 5 p.m.

I also had another aunt and uncle who lived a half mile down the street with their toddler and infant. I'd watch their kids on the weekends — blasting Kashmir on their stereo as soon as the parents walked out the front door. Start 'em young. And that was my life until late April, when I gave up and moved back to Minnesota before starting college.

Two facts became evident in that 9 months in Florida: 1. I am freakishly good at Minesweeper; 2. Being a caregiver for two young kids is more difficult than any job I've ever had or will have.

I would never claim to know what it's like to be a parent. The qualifications for most people are pretty simple. Have unprotected sex for a while. What they don't tell you about is the work. It is a grind. Little things, meaningless in the grand scheme of things, like getting the kid to try a new fruit or finishing a whole bowl of couscous, can mean the world.

Those two kids I took care of? They turned out fine. One is 17 and partying out her senior year. The other is 15 and has her driver's permit. The other kids I took care of? They just went to prom. The oldest is getting ready for college, too. I'm planning a trip to visit him in Mississippi. In July. Maybe my Dad's up for a roadtrip.