Diary of a Mrs Dad 2
As I get older, my face is starting to sag like an empty Coles shopping bag. Jowls have begun to appear around my neck, Droopy Dog style. One of the kids’ favourite pastimes is to ask if they can play with my neck ‘comparkment’.
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We did a drive to the country near Noojee, to visit a friend’s farm, visit the dog’s grave and pick up some fine relish called Noojee Num Nums. As we passed through a country town, Dudina asked, ‘What does CFA mean?’ I told her that it’s the Country Fire Authority, and that they are volunteers and that when there’s a fire, they drop everything and go fight it. She told me that she could never be in the CFA because she is always too interested in what she’s doing to stop doing it.
On the farm (a weekender), we planted some seedlings and the kids had a ride on the back of a quad bike. I declined, based on past experiences.
I was in my early teens one hot Perth summer in the nineteen seventies when my brother was trail-bike riding in bushland near our house in the burbs (it’s a shopping centre now). I was clad in the latest seventies teenage gear – a stripy T-shirt, footy shorts and thongs. My brother told me to jump on so that he could give me a dink through the bush. The exhaust of an XR-75 protrudes enough that when I climbed on the back it seared several layers of skin from my bare thigh. The sound of this was like that of chucking a steak on an over-heated barbie. I screamed, cried and blamed my brother, who just shrugged, said that I should have worn jeans and wheelied off into the bushland.
While on the farm, the kids also saw a friend of ours using a chainsaw. ‘Mum,’ Dudina asked, ‘Do you have a chainsaw?’ Of course this question was directed at her mother. ‘No,’ interjected Dude, ‘but she’s got a caesarean.’
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Dude was born in 1999, one of the last generation of the twentieth century. When he was born, I was appearing in a production at The Playbox called The Dog’s Play and, like all of my forays into theatre, it was an unmitigated disaster. Dude was overdue, so we decided to have him induced. While I had imagined the doctor perched with a lollipop between the Breadwinner’s legs, saying enticingly, ‘Who’s a pretty baby?’ it’s actually done with a gel. As with everything in my life, the birth happened arse-about. When the gel was applied, the Breadwinner experienced heavy contractions but without any dilation. The contractions eased and then, when nothing further took place, it was thought that I should go and do the evening performance of The Dog’s Play, as the Breadwinner’s mum was at the hospital and could let me know if anything started to happen in my absence.
At the end of the show, the stage manager told me that my mother-in-law had called but that they didn’t want to interrupt the performance. I had no time even to say, ‘You’re kidding?’ before I raced to the hospital. ‘Speed away,’ I told myself, ‘it’s your one chance to put the pedal to the metal in the inner city when if a cop stops you, he’ll have to give you an escort.’
When I arrived, the Breadwinner was heading into the operating theatre, because the umbilical cord was wrapped around the baby’s throat. I thought she had a terrified look in her eyes because of this, but then I realised that I was still in my dog make-up (complete with shiny nose and whiskers) and that she was probably worried she was going to give birth to a half-human, half-dog beast. I also remember how the whole giving-birth thing changed really quickly; that while one moment, we had been having a baby, the next, she was having a caesarean.
They pumped the Breadwinner full of happy drugs, put a little curtain across her stomach and then it became an unusual kind of magic show. The doctor put on his gloves, showed me there was nothing up his sleeves and began to saw the lady in half. Then, from out of nowhere, a baby appeared. This was why the first thing Dude heard was me saying, ‘I don’t fucking believe it!’
Matt Quartermaine is a Melbourne-based writer and comedian. He can be seen taking part in ‘The Chat’ (See four grown men in comfortable chairs spill their guts!) every Friday night from 8:30 at the Maori Chief Hotel, corner of Moray and York streets, South Melbourne. Entry is free. Click here to read Matt's article about ‘The Chat’ podcast (available at iTunes) in ‘The Age’.
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