The Bluebird

The Bluebird is a story written by my friend Kate Baggott. Give it a read and, if you feel so inclined, give Kate a tip 

Other men in history have fathered children in four decades, but all my children are with the same woman.

Isabel’s favourite word is still Daddy and we’ve raised our share of eyebrows in town. Even better are the reactions when the silver-haired goddess -- my wife -- approaches us to shouts of “Mommy! Mommy, over here!”

“Sorry folks,” I want to tell the crowds. “I’m no dirty old man, just very virile.”

I’ve never smoked. I drink only wine and I eat green plenty of vegetables. Still, I can’t take all the credit. Thea, the lady menopause forgot, has good genes. My mother-in-law, Stefania, also had children over four decades. Twelve of them.

Stefania, the woman death forgot, was already old when we moved in with her when Steve was born. That was my induction into the culture of big families. That house was a hive and Thea and I were drones. I worked all day and finished my degree at night. Thea studied during the day and worked evenings. A crowd of relatives buzzed around and raised our children. Somehow, we found time to have Dora.

We grew up and bought our own house. Craig was born in 1987 and soon afterwards Stefania moved in with us. Between our leaving and her coming, she didn’t change. She was just as old and just as energetic.

Since the bone cancer, I’ve had to rethink. Stefania is lying on a hospital bed in what used to be our dining room. At first it was so she wouldn’t have to climb the stairs. Now, it’s to make room for the visiting nurses, home care workers and their equipment. I hope death remembers Stefania soon, but not too soon. It’s Christmas Eve and the family – both Stefania’s and mine – are on their way.

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