It's a Dad's life: There is a case of the guilts building. If this column serves a purpose for me it is to remind me of how I was feeling in any given week. Looking back over the last fortnight it looks like I have portrayed my relationship with the kids in a somewhat sour fashion.

It would be totally unacceptable to state that everything chèz Brophy is comparable to an episode of The Waltons, but we don't actively hate each other. In fact we are quite interactive, reasonably sociable and occasionally sensitive to one another.

The Centre for Gender and Women's Studies in Trinity College asked me to come in to answer some questions for a report they are compiling on the role of men in the promotion of gender equality.

Now, gender equality isn't something I would spend much time actively considering. I would tend to err on the side of wrestling to see who is more equal, but the younger and I strolled in this morning to see what it was all about.

They were interested in my views primarily because of It's a Dad's Life, and our decision for me to leave a full-time career and focus on minding the kids while the missus sweats out a living. We had a good time, the younger was in full voice and the whole discussion took place without my being exposed for knowing nothing about Camille Paglia or Germaine Greer.

Maryann Valiulis, the director of the centre, was quizzing me on my motives for leaving work when she made a point that hammered home. It went along the lines that if staying at home with the kids was viewed as the privilege it really is, rather than a chore, the effect could be that it is seen as an equal alternative to work, rather than a step away from work.

At this point the guilt started its slow creep up on me. The monsters have been pushing my buttons recently, a little bit more than usual. There have been a number of stand-offs, in which it gives me no pleasure to say that this allegedly responsible adult has been as petulant and stubborn as any four-year-old. I could claim that it is simply my inner child expressing itself, but that would be an aspirational delusion.

I have been resentful of my position for the last while, resentful of not being out working more, mingling with adults and getting things done. Instead I'm at home, watching over the kids but essentially not engaging with them at any great level.

And they've been letting me know they're not happy with that. I'm not happy with it either. All it takes is for me to get down on that floor, get my hands dirty, and get playing with them for the whole scenario to alter.

And it seems to be a matter of perception. When the elder asks "Daddy, can I get the playdough out?", over the last couple of weeks I have actually heard "Daddy, can I smear muck all over the freshly painted living room?"

If, instead, I hear an opportunity to have a bit of a giggle myself, then we are living in a different house, one Grandpa Walton would happily sit in, chuffing away on his pipe in the corner, giggling like the loon he was.

Because my two girls are fantastic. No pressure, but there's a taoiseach and an astronaut amongst them, that's if they decide not to become movie stars or go into professional sport.

If I'm bigging them up just to assuage my own guilt, then so be it, I don't big them up enough. Too often it's easy to be nasty, but it's nice to be nice.

abrophy@irish-times.ie