It's my first day at school. I haven't been this nervous in the whole four years of my life. Well, of course there was that time when my Guinnea Pig (whom I, for inexplicable obscure and girly reasons, had decided to name Pigtail) had gotten her little head stuck in the tredmill. I found here in the early morning, letting out heartbreaking screeches of terror. God knows how long she had been fighting for her life in that cage before I tip toed into the living room that early morning.
The first thing I did when I saw her, was to burst out crying.
I know that wasn't the most productive behaviour in emergency situations like this, but I was so shocked, I couldn't help myself.
The second thing I did was to run up the stairs, hysterically sobbing, bursting into my parents' bedroom, yelling out things that couldn't have made much sense to mum and dad, who had only seconds ago still been floating in a magical dream world.
'Pigtail is stuck! Wake up, her head is dying! Dad! Dahaaahaaaady! Help!'Now my dad's father instinct kicked in. It must have said something like 'Your four year old is standing in front of you and she is screaming for help, this is something very very bad, get the fuck out of bed and save her from whatever it is you need to save her from!'
As if struck by lightening, my dad threw the covers off and jumped out of bed. He was stark naked, because in times of life and death there is no room for prudity. He followed me off the stairs, rubbing sand from his eyes, his penis flabbing left and right with each step he took.
He must have thought that a thief or a murderer had sneaked into the house and was now hiding in a corner of the living room, waiting to demolish our whole family, because when I reached for the door knob, he roughly pushed me away. I fell and it hurt but I was so confused that I didn't even cry. While I pulled myself up, I witnessed my dad frantically shuffling about the hallway, looking for something. His shoulders and cheeks still had lines from where the doona had settled into his skin, but apart from that, he now looked more awake than ever. He had a wild look in his eyes and as he hurriedly grabbed an umbrella, I wished I hadn't woken him up, I wish I would have just taken care of Pigtail's situation myself.
Dad positioned his naked body in front of the door, twisted the doorknob and kicked the door open.
When you're four years old, your parents are your heroes. They are superhuman and you want to marry both of them and tell everyone you know just how superamazingfantasticspecial they are. I think this particular saturday morning was the beginning of the end of that myth. I watched the object of my toddler admiration stand in the door opening, in all his beer gut glory, armed with an umbrella.
My memory of this moment is that it was incredibly quiet. There were no cars outside, no sound of heels clacking on the pavement, I was holding my breath, I think dad was holding his breath too, and the only audible sound was the sad timbre of the high pitched shrieks Pigtail let out as her neck was slowly breaking.
I rushed past the dad-formerly-known-as-superhero and tended to Pigtail's cage.
I couldn't help her. I opened the door to her cage and reached in with my little arm, trying to bend the tredmill open as carefully as I could, but it was no use - plastic tredmills turn out to be pretty unbendable.
When the reality of the situation finally hit my dad, he came to help me a bit sheepishly. He stuck his hairy dad-arm through the opening and attempted to squeeze his rough skinned dad-fingers between the tredmill. Pigtail's squeals had turned into tired sighs at this point.
'Look at me', dad said. I could smell his morning breath. I looked at him. And suddenly not a single sound came out of the cage any longer. Dad had saved Pigtail in the only way she could be saved.
Ps: A LOVELY CHRISTMAS to all of you! xx
