It's Not The Way They Tell You

He's back, kinda. Charlie LeDuff (thanks, Richard): It was never a dream of mine to raise a baby. Sometimes, when Claudette is asleep, I find myself staring into the rearview mirror of my career. There was that time in Iraq when I wandered into a city hall that had been taken over by a radical cleric and his followers. It was Good Friday, and in the spirit of brotherhood we prayed together. By the end, the holy man's supporters were chanting with thumbs raised high: "Charlie good! Charlie good!" In some way I was an ambassador—not of the U.S. government, certainly, but at least to the notion that Americans are a decent, brotherly lot.

A reporter's job is to write down the history of the living for our grandchildren. Along the way, the reporter gives people things to talk about. He rubs elbows, makes suggestions to people in power, and exposes the wrongs they do.

That is what this stay-at-home dad would tell his old self, that young correspondent on the campaign bus. He would also tell that young man that if he gives up his job, his title, his artificial importance, the governor won't be calling anymore; neither will the old colleagues. There will be no more Hollywood parties. No expense account. No action. You will wake up in the morning and do what you did the morning before, I would tell my former self. There will be no sense of accomplishment—at least, not now. You will grow bored. So prepare yourself. It's not the way they tell it in those cute self-help books.