The new parenting: Now who's the daddy?

A Google Image search for Marc and Amy Vachon throws up a glowing picture of all-American health and happiness. There they are, gathered around the kitchen table with their freshly scrubbed kids, chopping strawberries in communal domestic bliss. No one is sulking or screaming. The air, as far as one can tell, is not blue with threats nor heavy with simmering resentment. There is neither a snotty nose nor a tear-stained face in sight.

The Vachons are the self-styled gurus of a radical new American design for life, which they call "Equally Shared Parenting" – or "ESP"; it advocates splitting the responsibility of breadwinning and domestic duties 50:50 between both partners – something the Vachons decided to do at the outset of their relationship, downsizing their careers to suit.

Their website promises "Half the Work... All the Fun!" By reorganising the logistics of married life with young kids into four neat "equality scales" – "Breadwinning", "Child-rearing", "Housework" and "Recreation" – we are assured that a marriage can be balanced, healthy and energised.

When The New Review asks me to try out ESP and write a piece about it, I say – "But my relationship is already balanced, healthy and energised." My wife, Ruth – mother to our two small children: Sonny, three, and Josie, six – and I are both self-employed and so can be flexible about childcare and chores; admittedly Ruth is at home more because of the nature of her work (she's a voice-over artist), while I work from an office. WhenI am at home, though, I do my fair share of the washing-up, the taking of the kids to the park, the cooking of dinner.

It is somewhat disconcerting, then, when Ruth shows unexpected enthusiasm for the proposed trial. "Right, let's see the real picture," she says worryingly. Hmm. So dutifully, I download the tick-sheets from the Vachons' website, on which we are to initial our respective responsibilities.

They list – in mind-boggling detail, I feel – the details of daily life as divided into the four categories mentioned above. "Chimneys and guttering?" Come on – how often does the guttering need attending to? Post Office visits – once in a blue moon; buying family presents – hmm, Ruth's better at that... and so the list goes on: dusting; taking care of frail relatives; shopping for furniture/décor items; writing invitations and thank-you notes... This is daft. "Who, in the age of emails and mobile phones sits down with a pad of Basildon Bond and writes a thank-you note?" I scoff. "Well," says Ruth, reminding me of the 20-odd hand-made cards she supervised the kids to make after Christmas last year. "That took ages – and yes, email does work for other thank-yous, but you don't do that either, do you?" I sigh.

"'Donating/discarding items,'" Ruth continues, on a roll. "I went to the tip last year," I offer. Ruth reveals that in this same year she has apparently cleared out four batches of outgrown kiddie stuff and dispersed it to charity shops and relatives. "That's why there's room for us in the house too," she says brightly. "Organising storage," I try – "you love doing that." Ruth frowns at me.

We march gamely on to "Child-rearing". And this was where I have to really take a long hard and uncomfortable look at myself. Because I often work from home, I am no stranger to the school run. Indeed, I am on first-name terms with the lollipop lady and am always happy to put down my evening paper and share my boundless knowledge of the capital cities of Europe and the two-times table at homework time. But as far as sole responsibilities went, that's about the limit. I don't organise their dental or medical care, I don't oversee their social events. Much to my red-faced horror, I have to admit that I rarely even cook for them.

So far, 36 out of 57 boxes bear my wife's initial, and 21 are deemed equal responsibility. Not one has my initials as the sole contributor. This is genuinely shocking. Although I hold no illusions about my role as New Man About the House, I certainly thought I played a much more active role in the development and care of our children, as well as being more hands-on domestically. Yet, according to Marc and Amy's list, I'm little more than a vaguely helpful house guest.

The "Recreation" scale provides a brief tip back towards equality. Then I realise that half of my ticked boxes are "sports" (going to football), "time to yourself" (watching football on the TV) and the vaguely worded "personal projects". Personal salvation then seemingly arrives in the form of the "Breadwinner" scale: all eight of the boxes bear my initial. After running around the kitchen with my arms held aloft like an extra-time goal scorer, I examine the list in more detail. The questions are actually concerned with time spent winning bread, not the amount of bread won. Ruth earns roughly as much as me. It just doesn't occupy her every waking hour.

Although both our plates are full, mine is heaped solely with a big stodgy dollop of work, while Ruth's is a smorgasbord of domestic titbits. This leads us to occupy very different mind-sets. My head is in the here and now, while Ruth's is on permanent fast-forward – this month's gas bill, the up-and- coming car tax, tomorrow evening's meal. I'm reactive; she's pro-active. "ESP", as the initials suggest, is as much about sharing a mental workload as a physical one.

It's time to stop talking the talk. Because I have so much catching up to do we decide to start simply with me taking on all of the tasks on the list that don't have my initials next to them, and vice-versa. Ruth will work a couple of days a week out of the house and I will refuse any further work and negotiate the extension of several existing deadlines. We'll try it out for five days. "But this isn't about just swapping roles," says Ruth. "This is about giving up stuff that you perceive to be your department."

"Absolutely," I say.

"So what exactly are you prepared to give up?" she asks.

A good question. As Marc and Amy point out, "equal sharing takes guts. As a generalisation, men have to give up the prestige of the overworked power career, and women have to let go of control in the home and with the kids."

The first day's teething problems are initially tempered by the thrill of novelty. I am woken by the sound of happy humming. Ruth is up and showered, kids at the breakfast table. It's half-term, so no school: "Daddy is looking after you today" she informs them, before heading off to do a voice-over session at a studio in town. "Now," she starts, "the kids need clean clothes, so put a wash in, and I promised I'd drop off some old toys to Marcia – and don't forget to..." I raise a hand to silence her. "This is all my responsibility now," I say with a beatific smile.

After she's gone, I attempt to dress the kids. Sonny rejects four T-shirts on varying grounds of aesthetics and comfort before I finally snap and insist on the original Spider-Man one selected. Cue wails of despair. "I'm not Spider-Man! I'm Batman!" Josie appears at my elbow, proffering a handful of bobbles and bands. "Will you do my hair?" Twenty minutes later, she looks ' like a deranged Native American squaw and I realise I'm over an hour behind schedule: there's tonight's dinner to prepare, a parcel to take to the Post Office, the recycling box to empty and the floor to mop (based on Ruth's description of what she would have done were she here).

Just as I'm about to take the kids to the waterlogged park to escape the weight of undone tasks, the phone rings. It's Ruth. I can hear the hum and chatter of the studio office. Adult voices. Relaxed banter. Laughter. It sounds like a civilised cocktail party on a yacht, not a place of work. She asks what's for dinner. I tell her I haven't decided yet. "Haven't you?" she asks (accusingly?) running through a list of options before I remind her of the Seventh Law of Vachon: the wife must relinquish control of domestic duties. "Fine," she says, and hangs up. I gaze blankly into the fridge for several minutes, then ring my workplace. "Is Ruth there?" I ask.

Postponing the park, I enlist the kids in making tonight's dinner – spaghetti Bolognese (not one of Ruth's suggestions) – until a jostle to help chop results in a potentially terrifying tussle with the knife drawer. I persuade them to do some drawing at the safety of the table instead. The kitchen is soon a busy hive of blissful activity and I consider taking a self-timer photograph of the kids and me and sending it to Marc and Amy for inclusion on their website. Then Sonny scribbles black felt-tip all over Josie's picture of a princess. A brief fist-fight breaks out. As I try to distract them my mobile rings; I look at the number: a client. I'll call them back later and explain that I'm out of action for a while, I think, hoping it's not a really good job I'm missing out on.

Pushing at least four pending chores to the back of my mind I take the kids to the park. "Can we play football, Dad?" asks Sonny. The field is sodden with mud. An image of a washing machine flashes into my mind. I try to blank out the thought of Ruth's potential disappointment at how little I've achieved today. Besides, it's quality time with my children – I'm feeling pretty good about myself.

Dinner is dished up on Mummy's return. "Have you had a nice day?" she asks. "Yes!" I say. "No," says Sonny.

The next morning I am prepared for the day ahead by 6.15am with plans of washing machines, shopping and cleaning. I tiptoe downstairs and make a coffee. I drink half of it then promptly fall asleep on the sofa. Wake up to the strains of kids' TV, children making their own breakfast and the drop of our gas bill on the doormat. It is breath-takingly extortionate. I immediately turn off the heating, issue each child with an extra jumper and ring the gas provider with the intention of negotiating some compromise on future bills. How efficient of me. An automated voice cheerfully presents me with several confusing options. At this point, Sonny and Josie careen into me, so I hang up and jam the bill into my back-pocket to administer cuddles. "Must call that client back today," I think, stroking Sonny's hair.

I start to tackle the washing pile with the help of the kids, whose pyjamas are filthy, before realising we are out of washing tablets. A trip to the cornershop ensues and I bribe them with sweets to promise not to tell Mummy they're out in their pyjamas. The woman behind the counter raises her eyebrows in unspoken query. "Hello Russ," she says to me. "Where's your mum?" she asks the kids. "We're doing Equally Shared Parenting," I beam, handing over my money. She regards me with bemusement. "I see," she says with an indulgent smile, nodding down at my proffered hand. "That's a gas bill, love."

Back home my head begins to hurt. We get the Play-Doh out. I consider making a model of Marc Vachon and festooning it with hatpins.

At the end of the five days we revisit the equality scales. There are fewer equal signs, but my initials fill more boxes than before. To me, this seems to have evened things up a little. To Ruth, it provokes a yearning for a return to domestic order.

In all honesty I can't say how much longer we could have carried on before a hankering for previous comfort zones would have inevitably returned. ESP is a very good idea. In fact, it's a brilliant idea. But in this respect it's very much like communism or the re-formation of the Spice Girls: great in theory, potentially problematic in practice. If you can find the self-discipline to chop your routine into manageable chunks, and the courage to let go of what you perceive to be your sole responsibilities, it's undeniably a positive and enriching way to live your life.

As for us, we have largely gone back to our previous roles, with a few major tweaks. Ruth has resolved to spend more time on herself. I will spend more time on all of us. As for Marc and Amy Vachon, I think I'm going to write them a thank-you note. It won't take too long, and all things being equal, I think it's for the best.

www.equallysharedparenting.com

How to share parenting

By the Vachons

New parents

Fathers: Take as much paternity leave as your job allows. Learn every baby-related task along with your spouse. Seriously weigh the pros and cons of downsizing your job on a permanent basis and then take action by requesting what you want.

Mothers: Make no assumptions that you are a naturally better parent than your husband.

With older children

Negotiate each parent-initiated change by communicating – from starting solids to discipline, childcare and schooling/nursery.

Each parent should put the children to bed 50 per cent of the time.

Try not to remind each other of responsibilities. If one parent owns all the remembering, the other will eventually abdicate this duty and dumb down.

Establish your own parenting style within the boundaries of your joint philosophies.

Day-to-day domesticity

Laundry: One parent does whites and the other does colours.

Groceries: Keep a list on the fridge so that the parent who goes to buy them can get everything at once. Share the shopping 50:50.

Cooking: Assign meal preparation to the parent who is home. As long as the food is reasonably nutritious, do not criticise each other's cooking.

Arranging health appointments: Make one parent the doctor co-ordinator and the other parent the dentist co-ordinator.

Household projects: Create a master-list together and post it on your fridge. Decide who is in charge of each project. The other parent can be the "helper".