So, Your Old Man's a Fraud . . . Families of pols are fighting against the pressure to be perfect

By NANCY TRAVER

As the victorious candidate is sworn in, his wife dutifully holds the Bible, her gaze uplifted adoringly, and his children, sparkling with intelligence and good health, sit obediently nearby. Or do they? In the midst of this year's no-holds-barred campaign season, families of candidates high and low are beginning to change the old rules by candidly airing their grievances and trying to break out of cardboard caricatures. "They're still reticent," notes Stuart Hart, a psychologist at Purdue University. "But they're also standing up and saying, 'Hey, wait a minute, I've got needs too.' "

The first instinct is to turn to the people who share their problems: other political families. Last week in New Orleans spouses and children of elected officials gathered to swap survival tactics at a conference sponsored by the American Association for Marriage and Family Therapy. They heard the results of a survey of 1,000 politicians, their spouses and children on their attitudes toward campaigning, media coverage and other pressures, sponsored by an Indiana-based self-help group called Partners in Politics. "Families of public officials have to learn how to do their job well without suffering in the process," says Carolyn Mutz, wife of Indiana's Lieutenant Governor and a founder of the organization. "Many political families don't know how to achieve a balance."

The Purdue University poll, the first of its kind, predictably revealed general willingness to undergo the rigors of campaigning. But many spouses and children of politicians are increasingly admitting that they feel trapped in the roles the public pushes them to fill. Children, of course, are among the most affected. After their father was selected as George Bush's running mate, the three children of Indiana Senator Dan Quayle saw him harshly criticized for, among other things, avoiding duty in Viet Nam. They were knocked down by TV cameramen and questioned about their father's rumored involvement with former Playboy model and lobbyist Paula Parkinson.

Quayle's wife Marilyn responded by packing the brood off for two weeks to a friend in the country, while their father fended off questions about his background. "We needed to get accustomed to a new campaign, but we also had to get our children back on an even keel," she says. Her method for preparing children is to talk them through confrontations before they occur. "Nothing should be allowed to take them by surprise," she says. "The truth will be far less frightening for them than anything they can imagine."

Then there are the "first gentlemen" -- the male spouses who suddenly find themselves sitting on the sidelines after their wives are elected. Dr. Arthur Kunin, a kidney specialist and the husband of Vermont Governor Madeleine Kunin, concedes that at first he was "not always happy waiting for my wife to come home." Kunin began to see that he had assumed the role his wife had held for the first 15 years of their marriage. "It's very important for a man to understand what being a high executive means to his wife," says Kunin. "I handled it by reversing our situation. Other men will have to find solutions that work for them."

Some political spouses resent the demands life in the public fishbowl makes on their families. One woman recalls being followed into a public rest room and accosted about her husband's position on abortion. Another describes taking a family vacation after a grueling re-election campaign, only to find the hotel telephone ringing off the hook. One political wife even carries a supply of her husband's cards to give constituents who badger her in public. Jeanne Simon, wife of Illinois Senator Paul Simon, tries to head off such pressures by carving out regular private time with the candidate. "We ask that the staff put us together once a week for dinner," she declares. "And we make it a rule that family -- only family -- is invited."

The public, though, allows the candidates to enjoy just so many benefits of ordinary life. Going to a psychiatrist or marriage counselor, for example, is still strictly taboo, and making such a step public can be politically damaging, if not fatal. Kitty Dukakis, wife of Democratic presidential nominee Michael Dukakis, thinks it a "sad commentary" that President Reagan referred to her husband as an "invalid" last August, after baseless rumors circulated that he had once sought counseling. "Everyone who needs help should be able to get it," she says. "It should never become a political decision."

Some psychologists argue that politicians whose families have received help with their problems may be better able to serve the public. But they acknowledge that even family counseling is likely to be seen as a sign of weakness. Psychologist Charles Figley, who treats state and local officials in Indiana, helps ease the way for them by inviting them to his home, disguising their counseling sessions as dinner parties. Better, he says, to call it "educational consultation." At least, that is, until voters wise up and begin to prefer flesh-and-blood First Families to all those smiling, we've-nothing-to-hide supporting casts.