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SHE SAYS HER back hurts so I rush around the bed and eagerly start the appropriate massage. This is the last thing my wife expected at 7 in the morning when she mumbled that her back was

bothering her. But like a lot of husbands, I know the element of surprise can be an effective weapon.

It has been a hectic couple of weeks for the mothers of America. Vacation jaunts. Back-to-school sales. Many of the mothers have been self-medicating with a glass of wine at the end of the

day. That’s not the answer, though it’s a pretty good way to kill time while trying to come up with one.

To make matters worse, my wife stayed up late last night watching Jimmy Stewart try to keep his family intact in “Shenandoah,” a remarkable, underrated Civil War saga. Before she knew it, it

was 1 a.m.

“Jimmy Stewart was so great,” she says as I run my hands down the small of her back, which resembles the curve the 210 Freeway makes just as you’re headed into Azusa.

I’m really not that good with my hands. I can’t build a birdhouse or help unclasp a necklace. If it gets just a little cold, I fumble with the house keys. But my fingers are extremely

powerful, from years of gripping the steering wheel in rush-hour traffic.

And I have pretty good people skills as well. I’m hoping they will serve me well in my new midlife career: personal masseur. A career in massage fits perfectly with my desire to touch

strangers and be paid handsomely for it. Trust me, in about five years, everyone will have a masseur. With a little luck, I might be yours.

“What’s Daddy doing?” the little girl asks from the bedroom door.

“OK,” says her daughter, creeped out at the sight of married people actually touching.

I return to bed as well. It’s only 7 a.m., after all. On Sundays, I usually get to sleep till 7:05. I’ve got lots of time, till the dogs start tap dancing on the wood floors and people start

clanging serving spoons in the stainless steel sink.

Between my wife and me, the baby wiggles awake. He has his mother’s milky skin and my thick wrists. If his people skills improve, maybe one day he’ll be a masseur as well.

The three of us are in what a friend once described as the standard H pattern, him the crosspiece between my wife and me. It’s as if he senses the drawbacks of too much intimacy and seeks to

block any further contact. Even at 2, he knows we are one child away from total chaos.

It’s quiet but only for a moment. Scratch, scratch, scratch. What’s that? Scratch, scratch, scratch.

Up in the attic, a critter is clawing about. I wonder if it’s the Malibu mouse we spotted in our vacation place a week before. Lovely varmint. Had Janet Jackson’s cheekbones and Julia

Roberts’ nose.

It seems unlikely the Malibu mouse would’ve followed us home. Even during our short stay, she surely witnessed the way we argued vehemently over when to go to dinner. Or how the kids fought

over Parade magazine in the Sunday paper. To my everlasting dismay, they always read Parade first, regardless of what else is going on in the world. If the Germans reinvade Poland -- or the

Muppets retake Manhattan -- I’m certain the kids will read Parade before turning to the two-fisted headlines on global upheaval.

What kind of mouse would want to be around people like that? Was she just looking for something different in her life? A change of scenery? A fresh start?

Maybe her husband turned out to be not what he seemed. I hear that sometimes happens. Not in our house, of course. Here, we wake up early, eager for all our little dreams to come true.