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Custer's Last Sit

Young Man Afraid of his Horses, Hunting Buffalo

Sitting Bull's Vision

Brick Head

Drum Head

Wallet Head

Bull Heads

Keep Trying


Meet Jim Meehan

"What Do You Do?"

Prior to embarking on my illustrious career as an op-ed illustrator, I spent many years as a full time Mr. Mom. This is my story...

Mr. Mom!  I hate that phrase. It makes me wince when someone calls me that. Yet here I am using it myself. It's short hand: a quick answer that avoids the painful explanations that invariably resulted in the confused listener exclaiming in revelation: “Oh! You’re a Mr. Mom!”

It's a status that's hard to shake. You know, 
I wish I had an area of expertise like other guys.  But you never hear of an expert Mr. Mom. You might say I’m a very experienced Mr. Mom but not an expert.  I have become an expert watcher of TV, however, which is an integral part of being a Mr. Mom; a sub-specialty. I watch cable news, and I’ve watched the History channel enough so I’m very learned about Gladiators, Nazis, and monster machines. All this knowledge I pass onto my children because I am a good Mr. Mom.

The biggest sin a modern parent can commit is to deflate their children’s ego (meanwhile your own ego is looking like the Goodyear blimp on a very, very cold day). You have to maintain a constant chorus of “that’s wonderful,” “that’s great,” “good
job!” and if you happen to slip and give your real opinion, the reaction is something out of Dickens. 

“Ego Maintenance” -- that’s my job. All I need is a title: “Ego Maintenance Engineer?” It’s better than “Mr. Mom” at least...

“So what do you do”
“Oh, I'm and Ego Maintenance Engineer...”
“Really? What’s that? Like a Psychotherapist?”
“Actually, it’s a form of psychotherapy prevention”
“How interesting! Where do you work?”
“Well, I’m in private practice at the moment.”

As an artist (yes, that other manly trade) 
I think I got away with the no-job situation longer than most guys would. When you hear of some regular guy staying at home with his kids while his wife works, it’s always spoken in the gravest terms. “It’s just till he’s back on his feet,” like he was in a horrible accident or was fighting some terrible disease.

Of course the artist thing can cut both ways. If I was in any other profession and didn't work for long periods of time, I would just be unemployed. My artist story works great with lawyers or accountants and the like who don’t have a clue about art or artists. They just look on me as a wacky bohemian and are even a little envious. 

Unfortunately for me, when we moved from the city to an artsy suburb there were successful artists all over the place and they all had big houses and au pairs, I was suddenly transformed into a schnook. 

My nightmare of course is my High School reunion. I’ve already explained to my family that under no circumstances can I attend this event; they have “pull the plug” powers to ensure that I do not go to my reunion. Unless of course I win the lottery or become a success - roughly equal probabilities.

Actually I would love to attend my reunion. 
I think it would be a hoot. Except for explaining to all those doctors and lawyers, that I’m a... well... a Mr. Mom.

Jim and Debby                   Jamie, Pat, and Joe       


Portrait of my Father

Floater 2



Low Tide

The Graduate

Coney Island

Watermellon Head

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