In my early teenage years I kept guinea pigs. I had about fifty. They bred copiously and I had a little business supplying pet shops with the progeny. My champion breeder was a black Bolivian. She was no beauty, having lost her figure to being an integral part of my supply chain. She was called Thursday because that was the day on which she could be relied to give birth. About once in every six as I recall.
My day would start with a visit to the guinea pig enclosure at the bottom of the garden. They would greet me with a Pavlovian eee eee eee. I would hurl a huge pile of greens (purloined from the vegetable waste bins outside Coles supermarket) towards them. They would rush out and stuff their Tardis-like stomachs.
I would look into their hutch and see who had given birth that day. If it was the sixth Thursday, Thursday would wiffle at me from atop a wriggly pile of miniatures. Given her productivity as a cash sow and the nature of my part in the guinea pig supply network of the south-western suburbs of Adelaide, Thursday’s genes must permeate much of Australia’s captive rodent population.
My colleagues are currently popping out offspring like Thursday. Every month or so, there’s another ad for maternity cover or piece of paper telling me that I have to cover the lessons of the paternity candidates. After a few weeks, the blokes come back in a sort of shrink-wrapped shock. They’re trapped in a parallel world. They’ll never be the same again. They have a sort of protective shell that diverts reality. Your bullets cannot harm me. My wings are like a shield of steel.
“Hey Steve, fancy a pint?”
“No.” Steve’s eyes glaze over. His protective physiology chemically attacks his brain’s misguided notion that going to the pub with his mates might be nice. “I need to go home to Monica and Henry.” The names have emotional resonance to him but leave us unmoved. He turns away as we roll out of the door in a conspiracy of alcohol-seeking testosterone.
Some months later, Henry has entered the specific attachment zone. At this point, the child has formed its primary attachment, inevitably to Monica as Steve made the mistake of coming back to work. This means that Henry now has the sensory apparatus that identifies Steve as Not Monica, in which case he rejects Steve as a source of comfort. Steve has not studied developmental psychology and feels rejected and resentful.
He has a free pass for one night out. Monica had hers last night. She went out with her friends, an island of nursing sobriety amongst shrieking feminine libation. Meanwhile, Steve was trapped in baby hell and Henry thought that his one and only had deserted him.
Tonight, Steve tries to be his old self. He starts jokes but is too tired to deliver the punchlines with conviction. He has lost his legendary capacity for alcohol. At 9:30pm he has his head on the pub table and is letting the surprisingly irrelevant banter roll over him.
My wife has again been raising the subject of children. I have batted it back as best I can but I am starting to realise that if I want to keep this marriage, it might mean children. In my inebriation, I mistake Steve’s wrung-out torpor for familial contentment.
“Steve.” I nudge him. He opens one eye.
“Mnnn?”
“So, having kids. Overall, positive or negative?”
Steve struggles to raise his head. He props his elbows on the table and his chin on his hands. My question reaches his primary auditory complex and winds along to his Wernicke’s area. Impulses straggle out across his neurones and tap on closed cognitive doors.
From outside, I see facial evidence of deep thought. He must be considering this carefully. Furrows appear in his forehead. His eyes close again. Finally, something electrochemical fights its way through the blizzard of ethanol and throws a switch in his motor cortex.
Steve’s eyes open and his mouth twitches. One hand moves out from beneath his chin. His head wobbles but maintains altitude. His hand rises and forms a fist. I wonder if he is going to punch me. A thumb uncoils from the clenched hand and protrudes horizontally. It oscillates slowly before rising and pointing upwards for a moment. A corner of Steve’s mouth twitches. His head sinks to the table and he slumbers peacefully.
So that’s fatherhood. I wonder at the unbridled joy of it all. Do fathers feel the emotional bond of parenting as much as mothers? Would I get this unequivocally positive response from Monica? What about Thursday?
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