Time That Was So Hard To Find

“I screwed up with me first child,” he said between puffs, referring to his rough start with Julian, whom he had neglected literally since birth. During his delivery, John was playing a gig with The Beatles in East London, and just weeks later, he flew off to Barcelona for a vacation with Brian Epstein, leaving Cynthia alone to care for their newborn. “That’s what a bastard I was,” he said. “I just went on holiday. I was an invisible father. But I’m going to do me best this time. I’m going to devote me every waking moment to Sean. I’m going to be involved in every part of his life.”

And as far as I could tell, he proceeded to do exactly that, transforming himself into the world’s first—or at least most famous—househusband.

Back then, in 1975, gender roles were far more rigidly defined than they are today. Women were starting to break boundaries and claim new prerogatives as the feminist movement pushed for more sexual, economic, and political equality—but men were mostly stuck in the same old groove that had been carved out by their fathers and grandfathers. The idea of a man staying home to take care of a child while the mother went off to work seemed in those days as revolutionary as a world with no countries, no possessions, and no religion, too. It just wasn’t done.

John did it anyway.

I know some people suspected that John’s househusband years were some sort of PR stunt cooked up by Yoko to generate positive press. It was not. I know because, for the next six months, virtually every single phone call I had with John—and I had at least one a day—revolved around his son. He told me all about how he took Sean on walks through Central Park, carrying him in a pouch-like sleep sack on his chest, exploring the less-trodden pathways far afield from the Great Lawn. I heard endless tales about bath time—how John and Sean shared the tub together. About the VHS library John had assembled for Sean so that he wouldn’t be exposed to broadcast TV advertising (“Nature videos and things like that—so that his mind can run free”). About the shelves and shelves of books John had purchased for Sean to read “when he’s ready.”

“John, he’s only a few months old,” I said, imagining stacks of J. Krishnamurti volumes piling up in Sean’s nursery. “What kinds of books are you getting him?”

“Children’s books!” he said. “What sort of books do ya think!”