POLYGAMY MY WAY

Remember those reality television gems such as John and Kate Plus 8, Little People, Big World and 18 Kids and Counting?

Stories about multiple births in one family, dwarfism in another, and a family bigger than the Walton’s with all the kids’ names starting with the letter J. Well the good folk who kindly brought us those are now decorating our screens with Sister Wives. A tale of polygamy on steroids with ego on the side.

It goes like this. Fundamentalist Mormon Kody Brown, not content with his three current wives, snags the affection of a fourth, and so the rot continues.

Mind you, I’m still trying to work out what attraction the position of Wife #4 holds but each to their own, as they say. And I can’t help but wonder, in our society of sexual health, if anyone gets tested? Or is this another case of keeping it in the family?

Either way, it got me thinking. About what it would be like to have four husbands. Disregard issues of sex or childbirth. Just the husbands. Hey, I never said mine was reality!

Husband Number One would be my tradie. This bloke would be the man’s man. He would wear steel cap boots and coveralls, drive a ute, drink VB, watch football, play poker, and sport a crew-cut. He could stand in for Bruce Willis if Armageddon comes, or when Scott Cam is on holidays. He could install a new kitchen and shorten the electrical cord on my hairdryer.

He’d be muscly, sweaty, call me “hey sweetheart” and probably give my bum a playful smack as he walked past. He would take out the bins. And bring them in.

Husband Number Two would be Mr Mum. He would get the kids ready for school, fill the lunch boxes, iron the uniforms, make the beds and do the drop-offs. Dinner would be simmering in the oven when I returned from work. He’d make sure there were adequate supplies of toilet paper and tampons. Clean clothes would magically appear in my wardrobe and he would be the only one who heard the baby cry at 2am.

Husband Number Three would be my cultural attaché. If you will. He would source invitations to premieres, box seats to Madame Butterfly and Coldplay, guest appearances at black-tie dos. There would be moonlight picnics and poetry readings. He would look like George Clooney in Armani at the Oscars. He would be on a first-name basis with leading chefs and effortlessly secure us the best tables in their restaurants. He would open doors, choose perfect wine, call me his “beautiful bride” and let me choose which seat I want on his private jet.

Husband Number Four is a no-brainer. He’s gay. Gay as a picnic basket. He tells me what to wear, usually after he’s tried it on himself. Then adds the accessories. Usually after he’s tried them on himself. He sits for hours listening to my problems and telling me how truly fabulous I am. He hates on sight anyone who upset me, no matter how trifling. He takes the phone call from my mother when I don’t feel like talking to her. And when I run out of foot balm or hair conditioner, I can always borrow his.

I think I like my polygamous set up much more than yours Mr Brown.