In roughly four hours, I'm scheduled to have sex with Ward Cleaver.

Ward Cleaver? you ask?

You know the guy: bland gray cardigan with leather- patched elbows, perma-press slacks, stern countenance. Stick up his ass.

Of course, it's not the Ward Cleaver, of black-and- white sitcom fame. The one married to June, that doyenne of conjugal perfection (by contrast with whom I could well be considered the Antichrist). Father of the Beav and all-around curmudgeon. No, no, no. Heavens, no. He's probably dead, for all I know.

Instead, I can stake my claim as being doomed to yet another Sunday-night roll in the hay with my very own version of Ward Cleaver: my husband, Jack Doolittle, a guy who once wooed me with sweet words and kind actions, but who now is content to deluge me with do- this, don't-do-thats, and do-you-understands? Somewhere along the line he morphed from gentle lover into bossy father, and I didn't even see it happen.

Yep. Years ago I went to bed with the man of my dreams. Now I find myself sleeping with Ward Cleaver.

* * * *

It's six o'clock on a Sunday night, and I'm staring Ward in the face. The pork roast is fresh from the oven, the potatoes tender and hot, the beans steamed to crisp green perfection, and Ward—I mean my husband Jack—is hard at work hollering at one of the kids for some minor infraction. Great. Another dinner ruined because old Wardy-boy is on the warpath.

"Cameron, I asked you to rake the leaves four days in a row, and again you haven't done it," he nags. "So now I'm grounding you for a week."

Granted, Cameron would sooner live in a converted refrigerator box beneath a bridge span than perform expected chores around this household, but the time to inflict extreme punitive measures isn't after I've spent three hours toiling over this picture- perfect dinner that no one but Jack will even eat. I'm lucky enough to have dragged these kids to the table at the same time; I don't need unwanted contention to flush this happy family meal in a swirling rush down the commode of filial resentment.

"If I told you once I've told you a thousand times, don't play with your food."

He's yelling at Chrissy now, who is stuffing green beans into her nostrils so that she looks like a walrus. I think it's kind of funny and let out a laugh despite myself. Jack glares at me.

"Young lady, if I have to pull those green beans out of your nose—and Lindsay, get your elbows off the table. You're old enough to eat like a lady."

We interrupt this lovely family dinner for a one-man bitchfest, brought to you by Ward Cleaver.... Our pleasant Sunday-night supper, which began with happily chattering children, has now devolved into a behavioral sermon conducted by the high priest of killjoy.

"And, Claire, do you suppose you might someday choose to remember not to disturb me on my cell phone when I'm out golfing?"

Out golfing while I'm home dealing with the kids and those to-do lists they aren't to-doing.

"Jack," I say through gritted teeth. I absolutely detest strife and will do most anything to avoid it. Even sleep with Ward Cleaver. "If you-know-who wants you-know- what, then you-know-who had better back off. Now."

Yes, it's Sunday night. Mandatory-sex night. Damn. No wonder I hate Sundays so damned much. After a week of serving as mistress to house, husband, children, and career, the last thing I want is to have Jack point that gun at my temple.

I don't know when sex went from being the most glorious thing imaginable to being a loathsome necessity, ranking up there alongside trench warfare or changing bedpans at a nursing home, but somewhere along the line sex went from self-serving to servitude, and nowadays I find my mood worsening the closer I get to Sunday night.

Don't get me wrong. I still love Jack. And it's not that I think Ward's such a bad guy. After all, he's probably the one I'd count on to bring home a steady income, or to set the kids straight if we found a bong or a gun or a creepy snuff film in one of their dresser drawers.

But sex? With Ward Cleaver? Spare me. Or maybe send Ward's young nemesis, Eddie Haskell, my way. Maybe what I really need is a bad boy to save the day.

* * * *