Guest Article by Reservoir Dad
I do my little turn on the catwalk is just one of the musings Reservoir Dad has while driving with his boys. Enjoy!
As Reservoir Mum and Tyson are flying off to Sydney for a conference, Archie, Lewis and myself are on a three hour trip to the country to see the grandparents. The kids are watching Alvin and The Chipmunks on the portable DVD player with a lap-full of crackers and nuts.
When the chipmunks start singing ‘You Can’t Touch This’ I become locked inside myself. Reservoir Mum fills my mind. I miss her after only waving goodbye an hour ago but I’m not surprised because music from my teen years always fire my neurons with a mix of euphoria, depression and alcoholic type blackouts.
A bus passes me in the left hand lane and I can’t help but wonder if anyone saw me absent-mindedly shift my jeans-constricted genitals a little bit to the left. The very likely possibility reminds me of an article I read in a doctor’s office about the sexual fantasies of middle age women. Driving past trucks with the skirt hiked up around the hips and the breasts bared rated very highly and all of a sudden I am thinking about boobs.
I can see a pair of them waving from side to side in front of me like a hypnotist’s watch and it occurs to me that I never really was a breast man until my sons arrived to take them away from me. The mirage of a pair of breasts becomes two MC Hammers in baggy yellow pants dancing on Reservoir Mum’s chest singing You Can’t Touch this and I’m back with the chipmunks and Archie and Lewis and another hour, at least, of driving and I feel desperate for a seventies/eighties/nineties music fix.
I swerve into an exit off the highway that leads into a BP convenience store and within minutes am back on the road with a CD called ‘Guilty Pleasures’ that is just bulging with nostalgic hits – ABC, Cyndi Lauper, Starship, Tears for Fears etc. I’m shaking with excitement and within seconds am flexing and relaxing my glutes to get a bopping-up-and-down-on-the-carseat dance going.
Archie and Lewis are laughing and I can’t help but be enthused by this. I dip my head to the left and the right, slap my hands together semi-rhythmically and point at them in the rear vision mirror. This just about incites a riot as the boys go ballistic. They wanna be like me, their cool Daddy-O.
They dance very well. Picture two hamsters on a medium-to-hot frypan and turn up the heat. One of Lewis’s arms break free of the restraints and in all the excitement it’s only natural he smacks Archie right in the face. I scream, ‘I’ll turn this damn car around!’ and change tracks.
Rick Astley is Never Gunna Give You Up but he won’t stop Archie chewing at his car seat restraint to enact a horrible revenge on his brother so I fast forward to I’m Too Sexy by Right Said Fred. Bingo. We’re off again, dancing like the freaks we aspire to be.
I drift again and see a long catwalk. Everyone we know is there lined up in their Sunday best, screaming for us. Archie, Lewis and Reservoir Dad strutting up a storm, singing, dancing, gyrating our way to a life of fame. We do a little jig in a circle and then jump higher than anyone expected us to and finish with a spinning back kick. I’m thinking move overJackson5.
Archie stops me mid strut and brings me back to the long road ahead.
‘Dad,’ he says, ‘What is sexy?’
Oh shit. Sexy. I know what it is but should he know yet? I run through good definitions of sexy in my head: concerned predominantly or excessively with sex, someone or something that is sexually appealing, Wilma from the Flintstones“¦ Uh, no. Anything definition that has anything to do with sex has the potential to lead to other words like penis, vagina and vas deferens. I tell him that sexy means you wear nice clothes and I feel okay with that cause its kinda true (in the round-about way that not telling the truth is kinda like telling the truth.)
The sexy smoothness of Sam Brown singing Stop joins us and I turn it up saying, ‘Okay. This Arch. This is sexy.’
I watch my boys staring silently as Sam soothes them. They’re so cute. Like little chipmunks. I feel like screaming ‘Line up your kids people! I dare you. None of your kids are cuter than mine!’
I think of Tyson and I miss him his wobbly bubby cheeks, his husky little giggle, the way he drools and wees on me and how it doesn’t even bother me. I wonder what he’s doing and Sam Brown enhances the emotion to put me on the verge of homesick-like tears but I’m well aware that I’m a man and that crying in public is considered an outrage and so I tilt my head to the side and watch the road through the corner of my bleary eyes, just in case another bus comes by.
Within a split second of thinking of the bus coming by I remember the sexual fantasy article and I think of boobs again and I’m almost certain that Tyson is breastfeeding and I remember that I have now been banished from breast-land for nearly five baby-suckling years and the boob mirage appears again just out of reach, in front of me on the open road. My mind morphs images and the boobs become two Geelong Premiership Flags blowing in the breeze. For most of my life I thought they would always be just beyond reach but I have them now and the message is clear.
I turn the music up and listen to We Built This City by Starship because it just seems like the right time to do it and I’m feeling buoyant, suddenly. My boys are awesome. The way they dance and punch each other! The way they eat nuts and crackers and watch DVDs! They are works of bleeding art. I feel good that we made them and I know and I’m sure Reservoir Mum knows that the boob-time we sacrificed to make our kids the best kids ever was well worth it.
And I’m thinking, as I tap my fingers on the steering wheel and shift my jeans-constricted genitals back to the right, that my boob time will come again.
Oh yes, it will come again.
Reservoir Dad, is a almost forty, stay at home Dad, married to Reservoir Mum. Four boys under seven, a dog named Ekko, a guinea pig and rabbit named Nugget and Chips, a Tarago called Mighty, and a robotic vacuum named Wilson (I love him best of all). For several years I’ve written about the million things that live inside the above paragraph while simultaneously fantasising about myself as a pop icon from the 1980s. You can find most of it here (website). I’ve also written several unpublished novels. Some published short stories. Some poems about ducks. I blog at www.reservoirdad.com Join the Reservoir Dad Facebook Page here and follow me on Twitter here. Twitterhttps://twitter.com/ReservoirDad Facebook – http://www.facebook.com/ReservoirDad
Talk soon man!